


Water and Green Things

by rideswraptors



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, He's back and forth on the subject, I love Capable, Max Rockatansky Comes Back To The Citadel, Max is skittish, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, hopefully this seems in character, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max comes and goes. Furiosa stays and rebuilds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Don’t Even Know If I Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are love, let me hear the critique!  
> **Obviously I own nothing :((

          The world was no longer fire and blood for the denizens of the Citadel. It was all water and green things. As an imperator and the one who killed Immortan Joe, Furiosa stepped into a leadership role with ease. But there were still obstacles on their path to freedom. Believing the Citadel to be weak without their god, raiders from Gas Town and the Bullet Farm descended on the Citadel like flies. But Furiosa, the Vuvalini, and the War Boys were ready for them. There were a few internal skirmishes, some believed so fully in Joe that Furiosa became their enemy. They didn’t last long. Alliances change when survival is in question, when freedom is in sight, when water flows freely through the ground. Their quick defeat was a warning sent out across the Wasteland: The Citadel is protected.

           Furiosa counted 185 days since Max had left when the fighting started to die down. Outsiders began to realize that those within the Citadel couldn’t be moved or beaten down. Strangers were welcome to drink and rest within their walls. And from there started the days of rebuilding. They turned Immortan Joe’s room into a sick bay, the Vuvalini and Capable took over cleaning it out and gathering together the necessary supplies. The War Boys, alongside the Wretched, built up plumbing and sewer systems, so that water could be channeled to specified pools, fountains, and gardens. The Dag took over agriculture without being asked. She and the Valkyrie instructed War Boys to clear areas large enough for fields on top of the towers. They plowed the land and sowed the Keeper’s seeds. Soon they had running water throughout the citadel, working showers, bathing pools, and irrigation pipes leading up to the gardens. Toast set up school rooms for the War Pups, the Milking Mothers, and even the War Boys, who’d never had a chance to learn to read. She pillaged Immortan Joe’s possessions for worn out books he’d never read, and enlisted the Wordburgers to help. Cheedo was having trouble settling into a single role, as she was still shaken from the whole experience. It took her a long while to be pulled from the Dag’s side for even a moment, but as always, she came around. She helped where and when she could; nursing the sick, weeding gardens, or helping teach. When Furiosa wasn’t playing the politician and settling disputes, she was in the garages. So many of the trucks and rigs had been damaged or totaled beyond repair during their escape. She was kept busy putting the vehicles back together, salvaging what she could, making do with what they had.

           On Day 235 since Max left, they got their first crop. The celebration was so bright and joyous that even Furiosa couldn’t walk away from it. There was music and dancing late into the evening. The Dag had been granted temporary freedom from the maternity ward to celebrate with the others. Everyone asked what they would do with all the green things. Some of them were for food, some were for healing. They would be divided as needed. But for the moment, her plans were to transplant some of the plants into other gardens so that they could spread and flourish. No longer would any supplies or necessities be hoarded for an overlord, it was share and share alike among the people of this new world. But the Dag wasn’t long for the night. She would soon give birth and Capable was adamant that she retire early. She was herded off in a big fuss of commotion and extended goodbyes. As a Wife, she was still held precious to the War Boys, who were unable to shake their beliefs overnight. As the Keeper of Seeds, she was heralded as a Lifegiver, and given a status equivalent to a priestess. She touched hands and shoulders as she waddled her way through the throngs of friends to reach the elevators.

            Furiosa sat among some of the War Boys who had taken to her like chicks to a hen. Joe and his lieutenants left a gaping hole in their lives, and instead of wandering into a fiery car crash or imploding, they flocked around their new leader. Many of them knew her to be reliable. They knew she was a black thumb, and one of the best. They wanted her advice on some repairs, advice on what to do with spare parts, advice on how to approach women. It made her smile, it made her shine. These creatures were no longer battle fodder. And just as she’d always thought, not all of them truly believed that their path to Valhalla was a heroic death in battle. They were curious, eager, and willing to follow the strongest contender. These would be among those to lead them from a world of chrome and salt into a time of water and green things. Looking into the bonfire not too far away, Furiosa could only be grateful that she was the one to lead them.

            There was no talking around it. No avoiding it. She had become a leader the day she stopped being a wife. Too many miscarriages. Too many girls. Too vicious. Joe had been greedy and possessive and a dick, but he’d never been a fool. He quickly promoted Furiosa through the ranks, knowing that she could outsmart, outrun, and outdo most of his lieutenants before she hit 20. She was strong and she was capable. Her goal had always been to escape, to get away from the Citadel. To go _home_. Her interest quickly turned to the trucks and war rigs, to driving and repairing them. She leapt at any chance to go on supply runs. But then there were the wives, the new wives. The five wives to replace the last five. Of those, Furiosa was the only one still living. The new wives were young, they were innocent. All she could do was befriend them and teach them. She earned their trust with pragmatic advice and kind words. _Empathy_. Knowing what they suffered, knowing what would become of them and their children, she could do nothing else but offer up a little bit of kindness. Then she was given her own rig. Then Angharad became pregnant. Furiosa made her plans. And she’d won. Now she had to make new plans, she had more innocents under her wings, and a larger circle of people to protect.

           Despite the lateness of the hour and the celebration of new life, there were still patrols to do. Furiosa rounded up the first watch and they fanned out to their posts on the catwalk. This was nothing new to any of them, though, these patrols were somewhat less rigid than before. Strangers were no longer captured and branded to be used as blood bags and entertainment. But still, War Boys would shoot to kill if you gave them a reason. So Furiosa wasn’t all that surprised when the alarm was raised three hours into their shift. She called out to Fuse, a War Boy stationed nearby, to see what the trouble was.

            “It’s a stranger, Boss!” he shouted back, “V8 with a trailer, fully armed. Ain’t giving in!” He gave her directions to the spot, pointing due west.  She felt a twinge in her spine as she sauntered along the gate catwalk to spot the trouble. They rarely had run-ins with individuals looking for water or fuel. No, their problems were with raiding parties. She swung her rifle over her shoulder, slid down the pole which ended on the ground floor of the gates, and opened up the hatch to find her men struggling with the newcomer. Amid the no longer very white bodies, Furiosa spotted a familiar form. Lithe, jerky movements that she’d fought right alongside of. In a quick move, she took up her rifle and shot it into the air. All of them immediately froze. Except for the stranger, of course, who took the opportunity to shove his fist into one of the War Boys’ faces. Fuse came from behind her, pushing the others aside, making room for her to walk up to the stranger who wasn’t really a stranger. He was dirtier and hairier, and definitely smellier, but he was no stranger. Furiosa shouldered her gun as he put his hands to his hips.

“Well if it isn’t the Fool,” she greeted him with a rueful shake of her head, “Mad Max.” A whisper rippled through the men. The Wives had talked long and often about Mad Max and how he’d helped them. They told the stories, witnessed him. They whispered about how he’d saved Furiosa in her dying hour. They said he vanished into the salt. And now he’d risen from the dead, apparently.

“Imperator,” he growled.

Furiosa smirked. “Nobody calls me that anymore.” He grunted what probably could be interpreted as a _good for you_. “Any reason you’re giving my men a hard time?”

Max shrugged.

          Not breaking eye contact she gave her orders for everyone to return to their posts. “Fuse, cover for me. I’ll send my replacement soon.” Fuse verbalized his assent and hollered for those above to lower the platform for their guest. “Come,” she said to Max, “we have food and water. Plenty of room for you to rest.”  Without a word, Max gathered his things and walked his bike onto the lowering platform to stand alongside his old comrade. Quietly she told him about the improvements and pointed out changes they’d made, the successes and the failures. She spoke without expecting a response and he gave none, just followed her where she walked and took it all in. The last time he’d been within those walls, he’d been captured and branded like an animal, strung up for months to galvanize Nux’s wasting body. It wasn’t hard to imagine that he didn’t want to be there.

         The pair wound their way over to her private garage, it had been set up by the men so that she had space to work on her own truck, on her prosthetic arm, and still have meetings. No one would bother them there. Max parked his bike and looked around, picked up the new arm she was constructing and set it down gently, glanced over her truck and then looked under the hood. Furiosa leaned against the closest column and watched in silence. If there was one thing she did understand, it was that adjusting to being indoors after days or weeks of being out in the Waste was not something to be taken lightly. And Max was already edgy to begin with. After a time, he was satisfied with whatever he saw and stood in front of her again, hands on his hips.

“Why are you here, Max?”

He went to the trailer of his bike and pulled out a full sack. Maybe 30 pounds. He dropped it in front of her. “Seeds for Dag.”  Furiosa startled, confused, and opened up the sack. They _were_ seeds. Tan little pods of something she didn’t recognize. “Wheat,” he grunted. She stared up at him, jaw slightly ajar before straightening.

“Where did you get this?”

He shrugged. “Went far.” That was probably an understatement. And considering the blood spatter on his world weary clothes, and the blood that had soaked into the sack, travelling probably wasn’t all he did.

“I’ll get this to her crew in the morning. But she’s on bedrest until her baby comes, Capable’s orders. You’ll have to tell her about them yourself.” He grunted. “Come on, we’ll find you a place to sleep.” Max left his bike alongside her truck, and she led him over to an old wing that had been previously used by the Organic Mechanic to store his wares. It was converted into private chambers for guests after everything was cleared out. Toast claimed it was _poetic_. Furiosa just didn’t want any trace of Joe and his sick band of brothers left behind. She opened the door to one of the rooms, knowing it had been made up, but paused when he didn’t move past the threshold. Cocking a brow, she waited for his explanation. Max was looking around at the walls, at the ceiling, with a grimace plastered on his face.

“Outside.”

          Ah. That too was understood. With a nod, Furiosa grabbed the blanket from the bed, and shut what essentially was a prison cell behind her. “Follow me.” They took the elevators up to the flower garden. It had become a place of peacefulness and meditation since Valkyrie was involved. There were paths and small pools, not to mention hutches to give shade from the hot Wasteland sun. Furiosa stopped at such a place and handed him the blanket, indicating that this would work. He nodded his agreement and tossed the blanket onto the ground. Before Furiosa could turn to leave, his hand shot out to grab her wrist, the good one. The human one.

“Stay,” he murmured. Furiosa looked down at their hands between them and he released her, albeit reluctantly. Quietly, she promised to return once she sent a replacement out to the catwalk. He grunted, satisfied, and settled down under the hutch, piercing blue eyes watching her go.

         It was quick work sending out the next set for their shift, as most of them were ready to go. Some of the War Boys still had trouble sleeping, too nervous to let their guard down, waiting for the next blow. In less than an hour, Furiosa was again in the garden, taking the path back to Max’s hutch. The flower garden was her favorite. It was superfluous and extravagant. Completely unnecessary for the life they led. And yet, it existed. It thrived. There were daisies and tulips and roses. Trees and ferns and so many green things she couldn’t remember the names of. Life hummed in the gardens; the birds came back, bugs came back, and she walked along the path to the crickets’ song. And if the stories were true, soon the rain would come back. Max wasn’t asleep when she sat down next to him. His head rested in the cradle of his palms, his legs were crossed, and he stared out into the garden. There was so much to see, and what was visible to him in the nighttime in their little corner, was only a fraction of what existed.

“You made your green place,” he said. His voice was still so deep and gravelly, roughened by sand and no water. That would be remedied in the morning.

“Yeah, we did.”

“And you’re fixing…what’s broken?”

         It was a simple, yet loaded question. So much had happened out there on the road, and their understanding had become so clear. Natural. Furiosa stretched out on the ground next to him, swiping the blanket he’d tossed carelessly to the side. She didn’t want to leave any more than he wanted her to go. “I’m trying.” They were silent for a while and she felt herself grow heavy with sleep. It was easier and easier to drift off in these new days. Easier still because she knew Max was still alert by her side. “You’ll stay a day, won’t you? The girls will want to see you.”

Max was silent.

**

      Furiosa was not surprised to find herself alone when she woke. However, she was surprised to wake to the sound of giggling not too far off. Walking the trail toward the center of the garden, her view became blocked by the gaggle of Wives and Vuvalini near one of the pools. She touched Cheedo’s shoulder to get her attention. The girl swung around in surprise with a gasp.

“Oh you’re awake!” Cheedo exclaimed a little too breathlessly. This caught the attention of the others whose heads whipped around to see the newcomer. This provided just enough of a view of the pool to see Capable and two retired Milking Mothers scrubbing the skin off of Max. Max who, although clearly not impressed with the proceedings, allowed them to do as they liked. Capable grinned up at their leader cheerfully.

“Morning, Fury!” she said. “Just giving our friend here a scrub down.” She grabbed at his chin, “We’ll see that pretty face in no time.” The women, excluding Valkyrie, giggled. Max scowled, making angry eye contact with Furiosa. She snorted unapologetically.

          “All right, all right, that’s enough. Send him to the showers. I’m sure he’d like some privacy.” She had to hold back her laughter as four women dumped buckets of water over his head, effectively rinsing off the suds and leaving behind a much cleaner, but much crankier, Max. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hang around to watch this new form of torture. There were too many things to be done. The Furies, formerly known as the Wretched, had formed a council to discuss issues and problems that needed solutions. They had scheduled a meeting for that morning and Furiosa was required to be there. There were two civil disputes to mediate, a rig that needed assessment, plumbing in a tricky place that needed repairing, and probably a hundred other little things that would need her approval before the day was done. Sometime during all of that, she needed to check on the Dag. Cursing, she caught a passing War Pup by the arm and instructed him to find two others and get the bag of seeds from her garage up to the farmers.

           The meeting with the Furies’ council was long and heated. There were several land disputes, a need for another well, and some concerns that the houses would need reinforcing. They had to budget supplies, assign teams. Furiosa’s only role was to oversee it. Otherwise, they could handle themselves. Still, they had their own doubts and needed extra reassurance. No one had ever had any kind of faith in them before, and they’d never had any kind of hope. Until they got their footing, they’d come to her for every little thing. She settled the property disputes while looking over the rig in the main garage. The first was a land dispute. She told them to split the difference of the land in question. The next was a question of who owned a particular truck. Both parties had bartered for parts, worked on the vehicle together, and now they were fighting over who would keep it, drive it, and the like. Furiosa came up with two different plans; either one compensated the other for their share of the vehicle or they could take it apart and separate the parts by ownership. She’d ducked her head to smirk at the horrified expressions on their faces and was satisfied when they stammered out that they’d talk it over.

           She was in the garage for another few hours, people running in and out with questions and wanting her stamp of approval. Working on the rig in between those moments was soothing. The War Boys employed as her apprentices were quick and helpful and the familiarity of the work had a calming effect on her mind. Putting an engine back together, making it run, was one of the few things she was really good at. It made sense, every piece had a place, and everything was predictable. Unlike the future of the citadel. Unlike her place there. Unlike Max. An engine made _sense_.

           The plumbing issue wasn’t nearly as bad as they had claimed, and she was able to direct some of the men to augment the pipes and replace parts without getting her hands dirty. By the time they were finished, she realized that she’d missed the midday meal and that it was getting close to sunset. Making the executive decision to take a break, Furiosa found her way up to the maternity ward where Capable had Dag on lock down. Once again though, Max had beaten her there.

           The Dag was sitting upright in bed, talking animatedly with her hands. Max sat at her bedside, carving off pieces of a protein patty and occasionally handing them to her. She ate dutifully between breaths while a retired milking mother, Agate, sat in the corner patching up blankets. The Dag had to be babysat to make sure that she didn’t escape into the fields or gardens. Slippery thing, she was. Furiosa posted herself up against the door jam, watching the strangely paternal interaction. The Dag was so quiet and so solitary, that most times she looked to be a pale waif among the green. Her speech was fluid and rapid, and more often than not, more complex than anyone was willing to listen to. But Max stayed silent, letting her talk herself tired. His elbows were perched on his knees and the force of his concentration was on the giddy young woman before him. His expression was relatively blank, with the exception of the softness around his eyes and the slight bit of amusement on his lips.

“Furiosa!” Dag chirped happily, having caught sight of her in the doorway. The ex -imperator was shaken from her thoughts and smiled brightly at her friend.

“Hey mama,” she teased, sliding easily into the empty space at the end of her bed, “how are you feeling today?”

          The girl flopped backward on the bed with a growl-like groan, “ _Bored_ ,” she flung her hand out in Max’s direction and he deposited another slice of protein patty. She popped it in her mouth. “Little Joe needs to get out of there already.”

           Furiosa pulled one of her feet into her lap and rubbed the arch. “Capable says any day now. Maybe even today. Feeling any pain or tugging?” She shook her head no. Furiosa looked over at Max and jerked her head toward the door. With a grunt, Max patted Dag’s shoulder and left. Dag settled more deeply into the bed with a giggling sigh. Furiosa shifted aside the girl’s dressing robe, blew into both of her palms, rubbed them, and then began massaging her breasts. Dag winced and grumbled her discomfort. “I had to have someone do this for my first few pregnancies,” Furiosa told her, almost reassuringly.

“Joe’s babbies are stubborn,” Dag concluded.

“Or smart.”

           The Dag rubbed a soothing hand along her forearm. Furiosa let her eyes slip over to the touch and then back to Dag’s pitying expression. Instead of commenting, she continued with her task. Stimulating the nipples for an extended period of time for a couple of weeks before the due date was supposed to help start labor. All of Furiosa’s pregnancies had run long. Only two survived birth. None of them survived Immortan Joe. When Angharad found out she was pregnant, Furiosa tried to soothe her with stories about her own experiences. Naturally, the girls had a lot of questions. Answering them was difficult, but words poured out at the sight of their desperate and terrified faces. Even if Angharad was the only one with child at that moment, it would have been inevitable for all of them to be. Furiosa mollified them the best she could.

“Max told me about the wheat he brought.”

“Did he?” Furiosa murmured, using her thumbs to put pressure on the nipples.

“Never says much, does he though? Crazy little smeg.”

“That’s unkind, Dag, he’s done a lot for us.”

The Dag shrugged as Furiosa leaned back, releasing her. “Losing a child would drive anyone mad.”

Furiosa crossed her arms, “What makes you say that?”

Dag was closing up her robe, sitting herself up again, “Because he did. Can see it in the eyes.”

“You think so?”

“Know so. You should see the way he looks at Cheedo. Like he’s seen a ghost. And a wife too, the way he knows his way around a pregnant girl.”

“I guess that makes sense…”

“Course it does.”

           Furiosa stayed until she heard the dinner bell sound, telling the Dag everything about her day and what everyone was up to. She made the girl comfortable and told her to sleep. Furiosa kissed her forehead and left as quietly as possible, shutting the door behind her. Max sat outside the room, right across from the door. One knee was pulled up to his chest, the other straight out. His head was leaned back against the wall, but his eyes were squarely on the door. Waiting. They made eye contact, Max’s expression unreadable. Seeing him there, it made sense why he came back when he did. The timing became clear. Maybe the Dag was right, maybe you could see a thing like that in a man’s eyes. She held out a hand to help him up. He took it and followed her to the dining hall. They were greeted loudly and warmly by those he passed. Some of her lieutenants reached out to claps hands as she moved to the head table. People were already eating, men and women War Boys and Furies alike. Anyone within the protection of the Citadel had to access to the evening meal. They sat at long tables, passing around tubs and trays of food and jugs of water. Max stayed close to her heels, cringing at being surrounded by so many people. Several of the men walked behind them and she felt Max’s jerk. She had to block his instinctual movement to lash out when something snuck up on him, his wrist tight in her grasp. His gaze shot to hers in a rage, his eyes wild. Furiosa held firm.

         “You’re safe.” His eyes grew distant for a moment and she shook him, “ _Max_ , you’re safe here, do you understand?” He looked startled for a moment before giving a curt nod and lowering his arm. Luckily, there was too much commotion in the hall for anyone to be paying them any attention, so his near-outburst went unnoticed. She returned his nod and they went to find seats. Max sat next to her, hunched in on himself, elbows braced on the table. The only way to become more comfortable was exposure. He’d learn or he’d leave. A platter of protein patties and fresh greens were passed her way; she loaded up her plate and his. Max stared down at the plate as if it were something incomprehensible. Toast, who was sitting on the other side of him, filled his glass with water and passed the jug on to Furiosa.

“You should eat,” Toast said, “It’s good. Better than you’d think.” But Max just grunted, picking up a leafy green with his fingers. He was more interested in the green than in the food.

“Everyone pitches in a little something from their gardens. That’s lettuce.”

“Lettuce,” he muttered, letting it drop back to the plate. “I remember food like this. Burned.”

          “Yeah,” Furiosa said lifting her fork to her mouth, “but we brought it back.” Max swiveled his head to look at her again. It was how he communicated; through looks and gestures. Maybe words had failed him. Maybe he was afraid of what might slip out once he started talking. It didn’t matter, Furiosa usually understood. She watched his shoulders lower just so, releasing some of the tension there. He’d told her that hope was a mistake, and yet the evidence of that statement’s falsehood lay right in front of him. They nourished themselves with the product of their hope and were restored. Redeemed. Saved.  Maybe it would work for him too.

Max ate.

*

         Patrols that night were quiet. Furiosa liked the sunset shift best, watching it settle over the salt so far away and knowing that there was so much promise for the next day. Sunsets before had meant the end; the end of another day filled with pain and terror. It was another tick on her chart of days since she’d been stolen away from her home. Now, she walked the catwalk, scanning the horizon. Max sauntered not far behind her. While he was adjusting to being within the confines of the city walls, he wasn’t completely relaxed just yet, but he was less skittish when she was around. Since she didn’t mind the company, the suggestion that he tag along rolled off her lips. Max agreed readily.

          It was comfortable having him at her side. The War Boys chattered ceaselessly, Fuse being the one glaring exception. They wanted to talk about past battles, their scars, their triumphs. Sometimes they talked about the women they were seeing, their trucks, and even gardens on occasion. (The Dag was adamant that everyone learn to grow their own food. It quickly gained traction throughout the Citadel.) Max didn’t chatter or ask questions. He was a solid presence. He had her back. It was an easy, creeping sensation that settled into the base of her spine. She felt bolstered and in control. The sound of his heavy step drifted over her ears and for a moment she was back in the rig, bleeding out, the sound of her heartbeat fading so loud in her head. Max’s hands had cradled her head, his blood pumped into her veins. His quick fix had prevented her death, but she’d been weak and inert for days after. The Vuvalini said that her body needed to heal, to recover. Whole blood wasn’t enough to help her. But it was unnerving, having someone else’s life force pumping through your veins. She would never understand how the War Boys had done it, hauling living people around just to suck the life from them. There was a debt between them, and it needed to be addressed.

         “I never got to thank you for what you did for me,” she told him as they came to the rest point. There was a cache of water, some food. Furiosa passed him a canteen and perched a hip on the wall. Max took his drink, watching her. She had to suppress a shudder; he was so fucking intense all of the time. She pushed through it. “We would have been riding through salt if it wasn’t for you. I’d be dead. Toast too. All of us, I guess, I don’t really know. But you should know that I don’t take things like that lightly. Anything you want, anything you need. You ask. I’ll get it for you.”  It was a silly promise to make to a man who didn’t trust his own shadow. Max handed her the canteen as if to tell her to stop talking. She could only huff a laugh and accept it. They were silent for a while, staring out over the salt, respectively reminiscing on the horrors of their individual lives.

          “Had a family once,” he told her quietly as the desert winds rushed over them, sand hanging in the air. “A son. Until I left you, I couldn’t even remember his name.” He paused, chest heaving under the weight of it. “Sprog,” he breathed, “his name was Sprog and he had his mother’s eyes. He’d be Cheedo’s age now.” Furiosa was breathing pretty heavily herself, trying to stay as still and quiet as possible so she didn’t spook him. “It all came back. Everything before. I saw him in a dream, and he wasn’t a monster anymore.” This was the most he’d ever spoken in her presence. His voice was still low and rough from disuse, each word carefully produced and pronounced as if he were re-learning them. It reverberated through her chest, and warmed a part of herself that she’d thought was long dead. She didn’t want him to stop. “I’ve lived with the dead for so long,” he admitted, reconnecting their gazes. “I’d like to be among the living again. If you’d let me.” There was something inherently subtextual about his request, but she ignored it for his sake.

“Of course. The Citadel is your home for as long you want it.”

*

           The Dag gave birth the next morning. Capable and Agate were the only ones allowed in the room, leaving Furiosa, Toast, Cheedo, Max, and a War Boy named Siphon, out in the hall. Siphon was the Dag’s favorite apprentice. He was taking to agricultural life like a dirty War Pup to water. Capable liked to giggle that he had a crush on the Dag, teased him mercilessly about it actually. In the hallway, Toast and Siphon were going back and forth about the logistics of soil nutrition. Furiosa thought it sounded boring as hell from her spot on the floor. They’d been there for three hours already, and Furiosa was sitting on the floor, back to the wall with Max right next to her. She’d spent another night in the hutch with him. Once again, he didn’t want to rest within the confines of walls and once again he asked her to stay. She’d stretched out alongside him, and when she woke, his hand was heavy on her waist.

          Now he was heavy and solid beside her, thigh brushing hers. She’d expected him to hover in a corner, or not want to be anywhere near the birthing room at all. But there he was, braced leg spread out in front of him, arm dangling over the bend of his good knee, his head tilted back to the wall. Labor had begun late in the night. They’d managed an hour or two of sleep before Toast roused them. Agate poked her head through the door and insisted the child would come soon. It wasn’t twenty minutes later that they heard a baby crying. Toast, Cheedo, and Siphon rushed through the door to be with their sister. Furiosa and Max remained seated, staring at the figures through the half opened door.

          “I had two daughters,” Furiosa whispered. “Joe had them killed before they were an hour old.”  Max grabbed her hand and they sat together in silence, on the outside of the happiness just out of reach. They sat there listening to the giddy chatter and baby screeches and swapped names like confessions. People they’d lost. _Jessie_. My mother. _Goose_. Ada, my sister wife. Once they purged themselves of the dead, they helped each other up and went to go visit the mother and newborn.

           Max lingered near the side of the room, stayed out of the way. But Furiosa was beckoned closer, and she pressed her forehead to the Dag’s before the infant was placed into her arms. Furiosa remembered seeing some of the War Pups when they were that small, but nothing so delicate as the Dag’s daughter. “Her name is Angharad,” Dag told them forlornly, “Because our Angharad said my child would be beautiful and strong. For that she needs a beautiful and strong name.” Her sisters and Siphon thought it suited her well. Furiosa couldn’t stop staring into her precious blue eyes that were wide open. She was a warm weight in the ex-Imperator’s arms. A good weight. Her babies had been taken from her before she’d ever laid eyes on them. Never even got to hold them. Furiosa cuddled her close, and looked over to see Max watching her, eyes hooded. Making an impulsive decision, she wove through her friends to stand before him and moved to offer him the baby. At first he resisted, taking a step back.

         “I wouldn’t want to…” _Touch her. Break her. Soil her. Ruin her_. Furiosa could hear the words pounding in his brain. And this was one of the few moments when he was so completely clear to her. On his shoulders was the worst of humanity. It was burnt into his skin, seared into his lungs, coursing through his veins. Mad Max was chaos and destruction; fire and death. But this wasn’t always so. He was a _man_ , not a legend. He was a human being, not some hell-spawn wraith destined to roam the Wasteland alone.  What was so conveniently forgotten was that he’d given her his blood and she lived. She survived. She created and didn’t destroy. Furiosa was living proof of this man’s capacity for goodness. For _humanity_. And he truly did need to be reminded of that.

“Come Fool,” she muttered and put Angharad in his arms, “Let’s not live among the dead any longer.”

           The road warrior held the infant as if he’d been doing so all of his life, completely at ease with such a fragile thing in his arms. His comrades looked on as that rare softness was teased out across his face. He’d been their seed of hope, their salvation in their darkest hour. Now it was his turn to be saved, to be redeemed. Here, in the city they were coaxing back to life and greenness. Baby Angharad was the seed. Toast, Cheedo, and Capable in her clinic gown surrounded her and Max, looking down and cooing at the newborn. Furiosa saw the hands that graced his forearms and biceps as they all stood together, watching how he didn’t flinch away. His focus was on the baby. Death holding Life.

**

           Out in the Waste, once again in his own Interceptor, Max rode hard, sleeping very little and not stopping for days. His ghosts followed him, rearing up in the seat next to him, on the hood, in the distance. He chased them out of his line of vision. Every mile between him and the Citadel felt a mixture of relief and wrong. Because he wondered.

           He wondered if the War Boys would accept Furiosa’s command. He wondered if the scavengers would break through their defenses. He wondered if they would even survive a week there. Max tried not to care. Tried not to think too hard about all the ways their bodies good be torn and shredded. The more he thought, the faster he drove. Eventually he came to a town he’d never heard of; a town of suspicious but welcoming people who gave him food, water, and fuel. They asked him many questions about what was happening in the west; they’d heard of a woman killing a Water Keeper. So Max told them Furiosa’s and The Wives’ story. Told it as if he hadn’t been a part of it. He stayed there three days, resting. On the third day, he discovered the seeds. Seeds were sacred to them, a large part of their culture. He’d sunk a hand into a sack, letting the pods slip through his fingers. He thought about the Dag, about how Capable had whispered to him that the pale woman was pregnant. Counted the days. To his left the likeness of Sprog appeared, looking up at him with his big white eyes, devoid of any real feeling. _Go to the green place, Max_. No more antiseed. Real seeds. Real hope. Max took the biggest bag he could find, and when they fought it on him, he killed them. And he took their antiseed, too. The kind of hope his friends had, it needed to be protected.

            He drove back hard, his whole being thrumming. Going back meant seeing _her_. Chasing her down, swerving her to a stop, forcing her to listen to him. But this time, she was the one who was stopped in place, and he was forever in her orbit. He didn’t need the map. Didn’t need landmarks to clock her location. Reaching the Tower gates, Max hadn’t expected the security to be so tight, but Furiosa was capable of nothing less. Still, being surrounded by War Boys brought up some not so great memories and he’d lashed out. He wasn’t surprised to see Furiosa handling small issues herself, stepping through the hatch and parting the men without so much as a word, just a bullet to the sky. She rose into his vision like a Shade from his nightmares, looming over his bent form with a smirk and a rifle slung over her shoulder. Max punched the War Boy in his clutches for sheer spite.

             The Citadel was changed. No more bright white bodies and emaciated forms haunting the valley below. Water ran free and there were blotches of green everywhere he could see. Not everything had changed. Not Furiosa. And that was a relief. He found himself drifting into her sphere, using her as a shield against the crowds of people who followed her around. He hadn’t meant to stay long. He just needed to see. Once he saw, he could leave again. Two days he’d told himself, only two days. The walls made him feel trapped. She took him to sleep outdoors. He’d asked her to stay and she did. If he rested easier knowing that she was just as vigilant, no one had to know.

             So holding the Dag’s baby in his arms, baby Angharad, it occurred to him that he’d come back for this. To see that they were good. That they would survive. This was a place for the living now, and he wondered if he even had a right to a place among them. But Furiosa’s gaze was levelled at him. The Wives surrounded him, hands clasping the arms that held their newborn sister. He wasn’t forcing his way in. They weren’t afraid of him, blocking him out. These women had carved a place among them for the ex-cop, ex-road warrior, ex-human. Mad Max was well on his way to becoming a man again, a man who did more than just survive.

**

         Max left the Citadel the next morning and Furiosa had expected nothing less. Old dogs didn’t learn new tricks. They kept doing what they always did and did their best to make amends. She could see in his eyes how little Angharad had moved him. That was more positive feeling than he’d probably felt in a long time. So whatever he was chasing, it was out in the Waste.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Dag asked tiredly from her rest bed. “Or is he looking for some furious vexation?”  Furiosa shrugged, only sort of understanding what she meant, as she tinkered with her new arm from her bedside. They were taking turns sitting with Dag while she recovered so that she wouldn’t rush herself back into working again. Perhaps in the old days it would have been possible to pop out a baby and get right back into the swing of things, but times had changed. “I think he’ll come back,” Dag whispered.

          Honestly, Furiosa wanted to believe that. After all, he’d been the one to ask if he could stay, so some part of him was here. Some part of him wanted to be here and not out there. But more than her belief in that, she believed that the Waste lived within him. The desert was in his bones, salt filled his veins. His mind was full of death and fire. Water and green things had no place there. Not yet.

*

         Max drove aimlessly, furiously, trying his best to outrun himself. His whole being always sensed what direction she was in. Always knew which way he’d have to turn to go back. On the one hand, a resting place was what he’d always needed. On the other, he knew he could never truly have it. Mad Max would be the ruin of all things living and thriving. During the day, he drove to the sound of Jessie’s screams and Goose’s accusations. At night, he slept to the soothing touches and sweet song of little Sprog.

 

 


	2. Little Do You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!

          The next time he came back, he stayed for four days. Then stayed gone for months. Then it was five days. Then a week. Then two. Then a month. Each time he stayed longer than the time before. Each time he was gone longer than the time before. Furiosa recognized the internal struggle, the fight with himself to leave something pure. A safe haven. Perhaps driving through a world of fire was easier if he knew for certain that there was one good thing within reach. Furiosa knew he was struggling with fire and death.

Capable knew something different.

           Unlike Furiosa, she recognized something in their Fool that she’d felt strongly in herself. On the road, Nux reached out to her for safety. For forgiveness. Even if he didn’t know what that meant exactly, it was what he’d asked for. The need to protect him, shelter him from Joe’s wrath, had snuck up on Capable fast and furious. It was a feeling stronger than she’d ever known. Still, it wasn’t enough to save him. It wasn’t enough to keep them together. It wasn’t enough to protect herself from the devastation his death left in its wake. The Dag said that Max must have had a family once and was adamant that he’d held a child before. Dag wasn’t to be questioned in these matters, the little witch often knew things she shouldn’t. Angharad used to say that she was gifted with visions from Valhalla; she’d yet to be wrong.

           What Capable knew was this: every time Max returned to them, he brought tribute. Seeds, ammo, fuel, foodstuffs, trinkets. He hauled cars and parts and maps and architectural plans for new buildings. He came back with stories and ideas for improvement. He brought fabrics and pretty things, ales and tools. He found paints and materials they needed, books and teaching tools. He even brought back refugees; old and young, families and individuals, teachers and farmers and storytellers. Each time he distributed them among the people; the wives, mothers, Furies, and War Boys and Pups. Anyone who asked for something, they got it, and he personally delivered it. The only among them who never received a gift was Furiosa. She asked him for nothing and he gave her nothing. But Capable saw it for what it was: Max was trying to earn a place among them by helping them build. By helping them create a new world, he was slowly becoming a part of it. That was their implacable leader’s dream. It was her redemption. And Max put all of his being into helping her get it.

           Most didn’t notice the behavior between the two road warriors. Capable did. She saw the way they greeted each other as the Vuvalini did. She saw that while he stayed within the Citadel walls, he slept up in the gardens. And that Furiosa slept there with him. Capable saw his stiffness and his tension when anyone moved too close to him; she saw that one touch from Furiosa grounded him in safety. She saw the way that Furiosa would stare longingly at the Dag playing with little Angharad; she saw the hand Max placed on her shoulder, leading her back to whatever task was at hand. Capable saw the way they worked together seamlessly. Standing or sitting shoulder to shoulder while making adjustments on a car; moving around one another, passing off tools silently as needed, and generally just acting in sync with the other. She saw the way Furiosa made adjustments for Max’s benefit; the way Max instinctually paired up with her when assignments were handed out. She witnessed their silent communication, the way their gazes met in understanding. Capable knew what no one else did: that _Max_ wasn’t struggling internally at all. It was a battle between Furiosa and Death. A battle for his body and mind. But Furiosa had defeated Death a dozen times, and considering that Max’s visits lasted longer and his absences grew shorter, she was beating it again.

*

            Max drove up onto the platform six years after the birth of Angharad. It was early, before sunrise, and Max was exhausted. He’d only been gone two weeks this time, a quick run over to Gas Town to get a part Siphon wanted for a project he was working on. The goal had been to travel further, stay away longer, but the desire to do so faded almost as quickly as he passed through the gates. In protest, he stayed among the denizens of Gas Town longer than necessary. Furiosa had managed to form a tentative peace treaty with the surrounding towns; goods, services, and water were traded freely. These days, there were less and less scavengers. Anyone could have gotten the part, Max volunteered. He’d needed air.

             Now? Now he wanted Furiosa. He left the part for Siphon at the man’s station in the upper garage. A few of the War Boys on their way to their patrol shifts greeted him in the halls as he passed. He was well known here, they didn’t question his presence no matter how long he stayed away. Despite his previous misgivings, Max had no problem exchanging small words with people he now considered friends. He stopped and briefly talked to a woman named Bevita who was helping Siphon with his project. He gave her the specs for the part he picked up, some ideas on how it would help. Excited, she darted off to gather the necessary tools. Eventually, he found himself standing in front of Furiosa’s quarters. The room wasn’t on the ground floor, it wasn’t at the top. It wasn’t isolated or near too many people. Not the biggest, not the smallest. As for what was inside, Max didn’t know. He’d never been in. He slept in the hutch in the flower garden, out in the open air. But at that moment he didn’t want open air, he wanted Furiosa. Quietly he entered her room, spotting her form on the bed. There was a wooden chair right next to the door (he had the sneaking suspicion she kept it there to smash over the backs of intruders), so he used it to take off his boots and hang his jacket. A small amount of light drifted in through the small window on the far wall, just enough so that Max could make out her features. He shook out his bad leg, and climbed into the bed with her.

            He should have known that she wouldn’t passively accept a strange presence in her space. She lashed out hard, fist swinging, and they grappled heatedly for a moment before Max had her pinned, good arm above her head, stub straight out (he’d never make the mistake of underestimating what she could do with half of an arm again), legs heavy on top of her. Her eyes were blown wide open, nostrils flared, and lips pulled back in a snarl until her brain processed who he was.

            “ _Max_ ,” she gasped out, “ _shit_. Don’t _do_ that.” He figured that she could feel the rumble of his laughter. “Wasn’t expecting you back this soon. You okay?” He shrugged, a soft shake of his shoulders as he relaxed his grip on her. Furiosa relaxed underneath him, visibly relieved. “Good. Get off me.” Max chuckled and flopped onto the bed next to her. “You got Siphon’s part?” He grunted. “He’ll be happy, he’s been chomping at the bit.” She yawned loudly, slapping his chest with the back of her hand. “Now shut up and let me sleep.” Laying there, he accepted that fact that she was going to curl into him, use her limbs to keep him there. It was a habit, her way of keeping control, and of knowing when he was and wasn’t there. He’d gotten accustomed to it, and was hardly surprised when she shifted to be more on him than on the bed. Since the entire community had taken to bathing, someone had started making soaps. Even though her hair was still cropped close to her head, it retained the scent of something heady and flowery. Roses, maybe. She liked roses. Max inhaled her, feeling the relief wash over him. In part. The bed was different. He was used to sleeping on the ground or against a wall, but much like its occupant, it wasn’t too soft, and he was very quickly asleep.

They slept there until the Wives’ yelling and bickering didn’t allow them to. Capable flung open the door, Cheedo, Dag, Angharad, and Fuse behind her, to reveal the barely awake pair.

“See?” Capable declared, “Told you they’d be here.”

“Ello, Maxie,” Dag cooed, “Angi made a nice picture for you.” Through a half open eye, he saw the little girl wave a sheet of paper. Max grunted and flipped over to bury his face in Furiosa’s side, not at all pleased with the disturbance.

“What do you _want_?” Furiosa groaned out. She wasn’t nearly as annoyed, having slept more than Max, so there was a lightness to her authoritative tone that Max found pleasing. He hummed as she stroked his head and talked to their guests, promising she would be down to see the Gardeners soon. The gaggle left in an air of chatter, except for Capable who leaned against the door frame.

             “And what has our gallant hero brought home for you this time?” the red head asked wryly, smirk plastered on her lovely features. Max heard Furiosa spit some abuse at her before the girl laughed and shut the door behind her. He wasn’t really interested in Capable’s nonsense; he just tightened the grasp of his arm flung around her waist. Furiosa was sitting up straight, fingers still threading through his hair, and he kept his face nuzzled into her belly. This was about as intimate as they ever were, holding each other close in the stillness of their privacy together. Max knew what people wondered, what they talked about, but it was irrelevant so long as they respected her leadership.

“You’re gonna have to let me go,” she murmured even though her hand was still petting his head. He grunted in the negative, making her laugh a little. “They’ll just come back.”

           “Then shoot them.”  Furiosa let out her full, mellifluous laugh, something unrestrained and fond. Max wasn’t really the playful type, but he was a sarcastic piece of shit on occasion. They meshed well, with their cynical and dry senses of humor. But really, Max just liked to hear her laugh. The happiness, the cheerfulness, all of it was a sign that the price of her hope was well worth it. It made him feel a little less of a bastard for restoring it to her.

          “Don’t think the men would take well to that. Besides, I’ve only got 2 bullets.”  He breathed deeply before turning his head to look up at her. She was already watching him with a half-smile. “You stay. Sleep.” Max grunted and allowed her to slip from his grasp. He rolled over to watch her strap on her prosthetic. It was new, built with an alloy he’d taken off a scavenging party months before. It was prehensile, flexible, and there was extra padding to prevent chafing. The straps were much stronger, but still simpler for her to navigate one-handed. It was a better fit. She turned to see him watching and went to sit on the bed next to his prone form. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked again, hand on his chest.

             Something in him flared up where she touched, a long dead feeling, a sense of being there before. Another place, another time, another woman. He’d been close like this with Jessie. All sense of rightness being close to another human being died with her. But still it was different, it was surviving. It was saving. Instead of answering her, Max leaned up, tugged her to him, and kissed her soundly. Furiosa took only a beat to respond, her hand flying up to his face, thumbing the scruff there. He tugged at her lips, forcing them apart to open her up to him. She responded easily and in kind, and he felt the cool metal of her arm slide to his neck which made him shiver. Furiosa tightened her grip on him suddenly and softly stopped the kiss with her mouth, letting her forehead drop to his. The rapid rise and fall of her breasts against him roused something in him, and the arm he didn’t know had slipped around the small of her back braced her tighter to him, even more reluctant to let her go now. “ _Max_ ,” she whispered out.

He released her and knocked his forehead to hers gently. “Go,” he said gruffly. Her hand was still on his cheek, and she pressed a kiss to the other one. “I’ll be here.” Without a word, but with one last look, she left.

*

              Max still went on runs fairly regularly. But he was only gone as long as necessary, and he kept coming back. In the privacy of her quarters, kisses were frequent and prolonged. Out in the openness of the Citadel, they stayed as close as they ever were. Occasionally, they would sleep out in the gardens, when Max found four walls to be too stifling. And even though they clung together, they lashed out just as often. Max would wake up fighting. Furiosa didn’t like feeling pinned or held in place. The first time he got too enthusiastic during one of their more intimate exchanges and held her leg down, she elbowed him in the jaw. Another time he had a flash back, threw her off him with an angry roar, and held a knife to her throat. Their moments of violence, the horrors of their respective pasts flared up when they came together. It took months of acclimation for Max to even get a hand between her legs without her kneeing him in the groin. They would be horribly embarrassed in the aftermath, but would laugh later. They were too fucked up in the head to even have proper sex without trying to kill each other. Eventually he figured out that while she’d had hands shoved down there, she’d never had a man’s mouth. No wonder Joe’s wives decided to take their chances in the Waste. It was a challenge he took on with gusto. Though, she wasn’t capable of reciprocating; Joe had seen to that. The thought made her vomit and shake until he was forced to comfort her. Max insisted it wasn’t necessary, not even a little. Furiosa was a mixture of angry and distraught as she recounted things done to her. All he could think was that Joe getting his face ripped from his body wasn’t punishment enough. She’d wanted redemption, she was building that every day in the Citadel. But within herself, it was diminished. So he kissed her skin reverently and let her set their pace, relinquishing some of the control to her ounces at a time. Their nightly ritual was immersion therapy, he drowned her in him and she offered up fragments of herself every single time. Fragments of the shards left behind like rubble. Max hoarded each little bit greedily, like a madman gathering scraps.

              The day finally came when they could come together without him trying to strangle her, when he could grip her limbs without having the wind knocked from him. They were in the hutch in the flower garden, and it was _raining_. Two days before it started and had barely stopped since. The Vuvalini said that when there were enough green things to put water back into the air, there was enough water in the air to fall back down. Max hardly cared, he was too busy removing Furiosa’s prosthetic and getting her clothes off. They’d found it was much safer if her arm was off; safer for his ribs at any rate. Drops fell through the cracks of the hutch, onto his bare back, and he nuzzled into her neck, dropping kisses along her jugular and collarbone. She lifted her hips to shimmy out of her pants. Once that was done, she unbuttoned his pants, using her hand and a foot to shove them down to his calves. This part was familiar, her gasp when they were finally skin to skin was familiar, his rumblings and grunts were familiar, and the path he kissed down between her thighs was familiar. Furiosa hitched a leg over his shoulder as he licked swipes up her center and rounded it off by pulling her clit between his lips. He pushed fingers in to stroke her as he worked her to an orgasm. She moaned out, body tight and shaking. Max kissed back up her thigh and belly before she tugged him up to her mouth in aggravation. While she held him there, a hand clasping her breast and the other on her ass, Max felt her leg give way to the side just so. He felt her open up to fit him there in the vee of her legs, felt her calf and foot grab purchase over his hip.

“ _Furiosa_ ,” he muttered between tongues and lips.

She flung her stub over his neck and rolled her hips up to meet his. “In me,” she growled out in confirmation, “need you in me.” He cursed and praised whatever gods there were for that searing voice of hers.

“Fuck woman, you’re so _wet_.” He swirled his tongue around her nipple, nipping it with his teeth, and giving equal attention to the other. Her other leg lifted up at the same time her hand flew to his head, gripping his hair.

“Never been,” she panted out. Max could hear her strain to keep ahold of her voice and he smirked before biting down, making her gasp out. “I don’t…” He cut her off with his mouth, plunging his tongue in deep, drinking her in. Max wanted to tear her apart, deconstruct her piece by piece until she showed him exactly how she fit together, until she let him bolster her weak spots.

         “Got you,” he said. Gently he reached down between them, tested to be sure she was ready, and then positioned himself to enter her. He pulled back, wanting to watch this. “Relax.” Her legs fell to spread wider, and he slowly pushed in, only pausing when she audibly inhaled to give her a chance to adjust. He paused three times before he was fully seated in her, and even then he waited for her orders. Gazes were locked and he dropped his forehead to hers, straining not to move too soon. And it was a trial, Furiosa was burning and tight, and the need to fuck his way in clawed up from his belly like some hellish instinct he couldn’t contain. But he waited.

“ _Move_.”

           That was the only encouragement he needed before he was hitching his hips back and slamming into her again. Maybe she’d been damaged, but she wasn’t fragile, and Max wouldn’t dare treat her as such. He hooked an arm under her leg and pistoned into her good and hard, setting an alternating pattern of fast and slow. She stared up at him, silent, but mouth gaping slightly, her cheeks flushing. But she couldn’t stay passive for long, soon she was meeting him thrust for thrust, pushing her hips up, clawing at his back to get him closer. In minutes she clenched painfully tight and then loose, so Max quit messing around to catch up. She dropped her legs, planted her feet on the ground, and thrust up to give him better access. He growled and grabbed her ass tight enough to bruise, fucking into her harder but slower and longer. When he came, he pulled in closer, seating himself within her, and nuzzled into her neck. She pushed him in deeper with a leg over his hips, wincing at the third orgasm to rip through her. Once finished, Max started to move off of her, but she tightened her leg around him. “I’ll crush you,” he warned her in a whisper to her ear, nipping the lobe.

           “No moving,” she whined. He laughed through his nose, and before she could protest, rolled them so that she lay on top of him. But even he wasn’t ready to leave her just yet. Not yet. “Fine. Better.” He grunted in agreement. After a while, the wind blew over them, making her shiver. Max grabbed the blanket she insisted he keep there, and draped it over them. He rested his hands on her thighs which were still spread out over him, straddling him. Her head rested on his chest, stub resting over his shoulder and her good arm curled under his other one. He knew she’d gone to sleep when her breathing evened out above him; he soon followed her. They slept on to the sound of rain pattering on the top of the hutch.

           For once, Max didn’t wake up thinking someone was trying to kill him. He woke in the middle of the night, probably an hour or two before dawn. It was quiet, it had stopped raining, and Furiosa stood at the entrance of the hutch, arms crossed and a hip cocked to steady herself. For a moment, Max allowed himself the indulgence of taking in her naked form. He committed to memory her outline, the curves, the ridges of her muscles. He remembered tracing the thick, deep scars that ran the length of her extremities, the chunks of skin that had been cut away and healed over. The taste of her. It had been such a long time since he was so consumed with a woman. Jessie had been such an easy, calm thing forged during peace times. His bond with Furiosa wasn’t less or more, it was just different. Something branded with fire and death. He’d been without Jessie for so long that the image in his head was of something fragile and pure. Furiosa was anything but; she was rage and hard lines. Her bones were crafted of iron, and her flesh was cut steel, blood flaked from it like rust. Her heart was chrome. Unbreakable. He could leave again, drive fast and hard as far as he could until he erased every memory of her, and she would survive him. Outrun him. Outlive him. Jessie had died the moment he turned his back. Furiosa would kill him first.

Noiselessly, he got up and sidled up behind her, snaking his arms around her middle. She stiffened, her natural instinct to fight rearing up, but it faded when he kissed the curve of her shoulder.

“It’s late,” he murmured.

“Could say the same to you.” He grunted, not letting it slide. She rolled her neck and then settled into his embrace. “Just thinking.”

“Never good.”  It was her turn to grunt. He held her to him regardless, dropping his forehead to the crook of her neck. He didn’t like when she was pensive. He didn’t like that she went to a dark place without him. Couldn’t follow her there. Couldn’t sit in the dark with her.

“It doesn’t seem real still. I wake up every morning and I keep thinking Joe will be around the next corner. I keep thinking the Mechanic is waiting for me. That the girls will still be chained to the beds in their rooms, locked in those belts. Crying.” Silence in the pause. “It’s like a dream…” she drifted off, laying her head back on his shoulder. “I’m scared I’ll wake up.”   

“You’re awake, Fury,” he spoke the words against her neck, “You survived and you’re awake.”

               Since sleep was impossible, they went down to the garage to repair a truck one of the Pups had wrecked.  They laid together on the creeper board, trading tools, holding parts in place for each other, and bolting things down. Putting the car back together, fixing up this very real thing, soothed the frayed edges of Furiosa’s nerves. Enmeshed in a project, in the cool metal and smell of guzzoline, hands and arms covered in oil, reminded her that she was alive. Reminded her that she’d built something solid and real and thriving. She winced when she cut her hand on an exposed spring. When Max noticed, he took her hand and sucked the cut into his mouth, licking the blood away. Furiosa pinched her face up at his nonchalance, considering her hand was dirty, oily, and now bloody. He barked out a laugh when she said as much. It was hard and short, and a rarity.

“Sounds like our lives.”

              They worked a long few hours, not talking much, until they heard the revving of engines and the roar of the garage doors signaling that the Tower was waking up. Furiosa paused in her work on the engine, looking upward where people would be walking toward their assigned post or the dining hall. Talking. Laughing. Doing as they pleased. Max dragged her from her thoughts, offering her a wrench instead of a comment. They looked at each other, eyes heavy, and she took the wrench to finish what they’d started.

              This was hardly the first time they’d turned to the garage for solace in the middle of the night. Furiosa’s survival, her usefulness to Joe and the Boys was entirely dependent on her ability to keep the car running. To keep driving. She swore that if her blood was poured out, it would be part motor oil. Repairing was all she ever knew. And as Max’s stays grew longer, he grew more and more restless. He itched to keep moving, but he didn’t want to. So he focused on something good and solid, something productive, like the cars. When it got to be too much, he’d go out on the road. The need to leave was lessening every time he came back because this had become familiar. Standing alongside Furiosa, fixing things, changing their little world one piece at a time, that had taken the place of running from the dead. Helping Dag in the gardens, rolling bandages for Capable while she talked, telling Toast and Cheedo stories, had taken the place of running from the living. He was purging the destruction that lived within him, replacing it with water and green things.

             “I should get up there,” she told him letting the hood shut. Max was wiping each of his fingers with a rag, watching the exhaustion stretch across her face. It was like she didn’t even believe anymore; she didn’t believe they’d created something sustainable unless she was bleeding out for it. Like, if she shut her eyes for a moment, sleep would slip away and her Green Place would fade into nonexistence as if it had never been. Max knew the feeling: keep running, keep moving to prove you’re real, to prove you’re alive. Bleed to know you survived. Kill to know you’ll keep surviving. Breaking yourself down to bits and pieces was the best way of knowing you ever existed at all, but it wasn’t really living. _If you can’t fix what’s broken, you’ll go insane_. He’d meant it.

             “No,” he responded. That earned him some raised eyebrows. Not exactly a word she was accustomed to hearing anymore. Not only were the people terrified of her, but she was also the most qualified authority figure they had. All of them were eager to please, to grow, to discover what the world was like without the horror of the old regime. For the most part, Max was content to help and assist. He was content to take orders; he’d done so in the past, at any rate. But they were equals. Max might be willing to respect her authority in Citadel matters, but not when it came to her personally. Furiosa was shockingly negligent when it came to taking care of herself. She stayed up all night working, patrolling, when she should have called it quits and brought in a replacement. An attitude that remained from her time under Joe; she didn’t trust anyone to get the job done. She didn’t trust that the world wouldn’t collapse if she didn’t carry it on her two shoulders.

“I have things to do…”

“You always have things to do. Let the others handle it today.”

            “And do what? Lay around and watch?” He didn’t say anything, just opened the door of the V8 they’d spent all the early morning fixing up. This made her plant her hands on the hood, tilting her head to meet his gaze. Max just waited for her decision. If she told him to fuck off, he’d understand. He’d follow her. Do whatever she asked. That’s how these conversations usually went anyway. But he wasn’t going to wait around for her to break down, for all of it to be too much, and watch her fall apart. Hadn’t he already done that? Time to try something new. Like going back in the direction you came from. Cheedo kept Furiosa’s garage stocked with jugs of water and plenty of protein patties, just in case. That, a gun or two, and some extra guzzoline was all they needed to ride out. He waited. “How far?”

“Far as we can.”

            Furiosa heaved out a deep breath, clearing her lungs of whatever gripped them, smacked the hood, and sauntered over to hit the stupidly big red button that would raise the doors. With a smirk, Max grabbed their supplies, and swung himself into the passenger seat. Furiosa slid in next to him, attaching the wheel, hitting a few switches, and looked up and out over the hood as the doors opened wide. “Just drive?” she asked quietly.

“Just drive.”

            So they did. There was a back exit they’d made for quick exits and evacuations. It also served as an entry point for anyone needing sanctuary or was just trying to escape an attacker. The moment they hit the open road, Furiosa leaned in, pushing the V8 as hard as it could go. Max let his head tilt back, feet up on the dash, desert wind in his face. This was better. Open air, no sense of oncoming dread, no swooping gut feeling that he’d left them exposed. As the sun rose, Furiosa smeared oil across her eyes, blocking out the harshness of the sun, and Max flashed back to the second day of their escape. It was a telling gesture of her ability to focus, war paint. Even if no one was trailing after them, shooting bullets, missiles, and spears, dropping grenades through their windows, Furiosa’s guard was up. This was the Waste, and she still had plenty to protect.

Even with hope, some things didn’t change. It was a small comfort.

             They encountered a small amount of trouble 700 kilometers from the Citadel. It was a group of scavengers who had “claimed” some territory. They rode up on bikes, swerving to cut of the V8 from passing through. Their leader called out demanding payment or blood, rousing some inane battle cry from his henchmen. Max and Furiosa exchanged a glance from their seats, grabbing their guns. Furiosa went up through the sun roof, and Max swung the door open to get a clear shot. She hit the leader square in the chest, and Max squeezed out a stream of bullets that took out the four on the leader’s right flank before any of them could get a good round off. It sent the other five scurrying off in the direction they’d come.

Max leaned back in, slamming the door shut and dropping the magazine he’d just emptied. “Waste,” he grunted.

“Only cause your aim is shit.” He managed to land a half-hearted back hand to her side for that one. And they kept on driving. Taking the scavengers’ supplies was a waste of time. Maybe the others would come back, pillage from their own dead, and remember that jumping strangers out on the road was never your best bet.

              And they talked. Words had always fallen easily off of Furiosa’s lips. Max needed encouragement. He needed to know who was listening. But when it was just them two, responses came freer. They talked about their worst nightmares, their worst scars. Joked about how they got them, even. Furiosa talked about what she remembered of the Green Place before she’d been taken. Max talked about Before. Before Jessie died. Before Goose died. When it was him and the Interceptor with a job and a righteous cause. They talked about their worst days on the Road, about people back at the Citadel. Max knew _everything_ about _everyone_. He was so quiet and so far away that people often disregarded his presence. They told him things as if talking to a confessor. Furiosa was intimidating, and as an authority figure, people skirted the truth around her. On more than one occasion, someone begged Max to go to her on their behalf with problems and requests. Annoying, yes, but at least she got the information. They talked about what would come After. Where they believed They Went. Furiosa told him what the Vuvalini believed, energy going back into the ground, nourishing the bodies of the living. If Max had ever believed in a higher power, or an afterlife, then it had long been burned from his memory. Fretting about what would happen After was a quick way to get yourself killed.

                Furiosa snorted. “Must be why the War Boys were such good battle fodder.” Max thought of the boy with bright white skin who’d called him “Blood Bag” even after he’d joined their motley crew. Thought of Angharad screaming in his face, demanding to know who’d killed the world. Thought of Capable’s face as they’d watched the boulders collapse and crush the cars below. The fire. Battle fodder, even in his noble sacrifice.

“Must be,” he muttered.

               Furiosa drove until dark, and they found high ground to park for the night. Instead of sleeping in the V8, they spread out on the hood, backs on the windshield, staring up at the stars. _A plain of silence_. In all the years they’d known each other, there was only one thing Max had never asked her. Only one story she’d never offered up. Since he was feeling a little bolder out in the open, since this was a new thing for them, riding out over the salt together aimlessly, Max took a shot.

“Tell me about your arm?” He felt her flinch, and turned in time to see her eyes drift shut, sighing audibly. She’d taken off the prosthetic, and instinctively palmed the stub. A nervous tick, he’d noticed, not something she did in front of others. Furiosa didn’t open her eyes, but he kept watching.

          “Happened when I first came to the Citadel. I…uh…I fought them. Used to be left handed, so I took a swing at Joe when he…” she drifted off, clenching and twisting her body in an echo of the memories plaguing her, trying to shake them away. “I didn’t want to…Joe said if I couldn’t put my hand to _good use_ then I didn’t deserve to have it.” It was Max’s turn to flinch. He’d imagined different scenarios; bloody and violent. Explosions. Severe wounds. Malnourishment. Birth defect, even. Not _that_.

“And you were..?”

“Fourteen.”

He let out a snarl, “We should bring him back so you can kill him again.”

She snorted, “I stopped being afraid of him the day I got too old for him. Best day of my life.”

“You are not a _thing_ , Furiosa,” he growled out. “You’re not a tool.”

            She finally opened her eyes to look over at him. As she probably expected, he was already watching her. It was rare that one didn’t have eyes on the other. Proximity made no difference. Instead of trying to figure out what the hell he was on about, she snaked her good arm under his head, and pulled it to her to plant a kiss there. In the confines of her embrace, Max cradled her stub in one hand. He knew the upper portion near the shoulder was well toned with muscle, but near the bottom, the flesh had withered away, like a wrist or ankle. There was a thick, pinkish white scar along the top ridge where the skin had been stitched back together. Sloppy, poorly done, from what he could tell. It had been enough to keep her from bleeding out, but not enough to stop it from ripping open occasionally. He idly wondered how many times she’d had to close it back up, and how long it had taken to heal. Max brushed a thumb over the scar, pressed kisses to the flat surface. In the past, he hadn’t paid much attention to it. Furiosa gave him plenty else to focus on when they were together. To continue ignoring it now that they’d come so far felt wrong. So he kept it in his hand, stroking gently, and met her gaze again. She was shaking a little, from the cold or the past, he didn’t know. He used the arm trapped between them to grasp her middle and pull her closer alongside him. He paused in his ministrations to her arm, to pull her leg up over his, and then went right back to what he was doing. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but nothing about their lives had ever been comfortable. They were used to it. She settled her forehead to his, relaxing into him. Max’s hand gripped her side tighter, almost to the point of bruising, and it was in direct opposition to the gentleness he showed with her arm.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she muttered out. He snorted. That was a long list. Since he was the go-to for all things gossip, Max knew everybody’s business without really wanting to. Sometimes she asked him for something new, like a ritual, to remind her that people could still be surprising. That their lives weren’t all death and gore and getting to the next day.

“Fuse and Siphon are fucking.”

She pinched the back of his neck, at the spot where he’d been branded. It was long since healed over, messy thing that it was. “They are _not_.”

“Are too,” he argued. There was no need to tell her how he knew, a whisper from there, an odd occurrence there, and maybe an actual sighting that was burned into his brain against his will. Furiosa let out a “huh,” laughing a little. That _was_ pretty surprising, if he had to think about it.

             “But I though Dag and Siphon…” He grunted, and explained that both _had_ been pursuing Dag. Dag, however, wasn’t interested since little Angharad and the gardens took up most of her time. “Not to mention _Cheedo_ ,” Furiosa added. Not to mention Cheedo. Their little love triangle got so ridiculous that Dag eventually pointed out that they were really trying to impress each other, and not her, so they would be better off sucking schlanger instead of annoying her. Having it pointed out to them must have provoked some kind of understanding because suddenly the Dag had been left without suitors. This information had Furiosa in stitches because how amazing was that? Two men fighting over a woman only to end up in bed together? Had the world really become so full of possibilities? Max drank down her laughter with deep kisses, finding his own amusement bubbling up within him.

They didn’t make any promises to each other that night. And they never intended to. Still, fifty years down the line, fifty years of fighting, working, and fucking their way to the next morning, they would drive out to that spot, and Furiosa would slip away from him while they slept. After burying her deep in the sand, Max would drive and drive and drive until her face came into full view again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! bringonthedeluge


	3. Everybody Stands and Keeps Score

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!

               Oh, was she _pissed_. He knew she would be, and purposely escaped to the gardens with a few of the people involved to relax and hide from her wrath. Siphon was seated right next to him, intent on hiding out from Fuse, who was likely to be every bit as pissed as Furiosa. Max made sure to remind him that he’d gone along with it, so he was just as much a part of it as Max. The two had banded together, through what was essentially mutual blackmail, to pull it off. At first, the whole thing had just been an idea the older Pups were talking about. A “what if” kind of scenario. This caught the attention of their head black thumb Jag, who’d talked about it one night on patrol with Max. Max thought it would be a great tool for training, a trial by fire kind of thing. Siphon was the go-to guy for projects like that, so they’d pulled him on board. Once the plans had been drawn up, Max took it to Furiosa and made his case. She’d shot him down hard. They did it anyway, under the radar. They’d built a ramp and a crash course for drivers. It was open and dangerous and a lot of idiots would probably get hurt out there, but they figured it would be better to get somewhat hurt near medical equipment instead of out on the Road with scavengers looking for a kill. Furiosa had a whole list of reasons that it was a stupid idea, but the boys had gotten excited about it, and even the women pitched in to build it, so all Max could do was shrug and tell them they had the green light. Would their beloved leader be pissed? Yes. Would she get over it? Yes. Was Max going to escape her wrath? Absolutely not. He knew that with a little bit of time and coaxing from others she would have caved and given them permission, but they’d all been chomping at the bit, wanting to work together and combine their talents for something they all loved: driving and hazardous risk taking. So was he surprised to hear yelling in the distance, the furious oncoming of her storm? Not even a little. He just leaned back in his chair, slipping a toothpick between his teeth, and tipped his head back.

“Gird your loins, ladies and gentlemen,” he grumbled. “This is going to get bumpy.”

             One of the women in front of him cackled eerily. “For you, maybe.” Mentally, he gave her the stink eye. This was not an amusing situation to be in. He playfully kicked out at her, making her laugh harder. That’s when he saw Furiosa looming in the distance to his left from the corner of his eyes, Fuse trailing in her wake, looking equally pissed. Max tapped Siphon’s chest with the back of his hand to point them out. Siphon groaned.

           If ever there was a storm of furious vexation, as Dag liked to say, it was ex-Imperator Furiosa in that moment. Max had seen her pissed, but it hadn’t been directed at him in full force in a good long time. He stretched his jaw remembering how she’d clocked him. And based on her gait and glare, he was about to get a repeat performance.

“You sack of _shit_!”

He held up his hands, “Now Fury…”

“Don’t you fucking _now Fury_ me, you crazy smeg! I can’t fucking believe you!”

“It’s just a driving course…”

            “I fucking said _no_! Some asshole is gonna die on that thing, and _you_ just gave all these idiots your fucking stamp of approval!” When he tried to argue, she threw a pair of gloves at his head. “Ring. _Now_.” Yeah, it was a lost cause. Siphon clapped him on the shoulder in commiseration, only to get an earful from Fuse about being an idiot and at least _trying_ to be responsible. Furiosa spun on her heel and walked toward the elevators, taking the thunder with her. Max sighed and palmed the gloves. This is what he got for sticking his neck out.

            The ring was a sparring ring. Before their triumphant return from the Road, Joe had often used it as a fighting pit, making captives fight to the death for water or just to live another day. It had been one of the worst aspects of living at the Citadel. Anyone could be thrown into the ring, and sometimes it happened in the middle of a bout. Part of renovating the Towers meant converting it into a training space for those who _wanted_ to train. They weren’t in the business of making battle fodder anymore. No one was forced to do anything they didn’t want to do, not if Furiosa could help it.

            It went without saying that Max and Furiousa’s relationship was tempestuous. They were both seasoned fighters with bad tempers and strong opinions. Max wasn’t always obliging and Furiosa wasn’t always forgiving. Passive aggressive simply wasn’t their style. When they were too pissed off, too worked up, they duked it out in the ring. No weapons, of course, but they didn’t need any. Max had gained a healthy and respectful wariness of her stub over the years, and Furiosa couldn’t always match his raw strength. They were even. Equals, even when they beat the shit out of each other. The gloves were more symbolic than useful. He’d made a stupid joke about her wearing gloves when they fought so that she didn’t rip her pretty skin. She’d broken his nose for it. So every time she suggested they go in the ring, she threw the gloves at him just as a reminder that she could kick his ass even when he was primed and rested.

             And Furiosa wasn’t holding back this time either. She came in fast and hard, ready to tear him apart. Fighting with Furiosa meant counteracting her speed. Sometimes she was controlled, sometimes she wasn’t. Usually, he had enough time to figure it out. Not that day, though. She launched herself at him, using his bulk to swing her legs up and around his neck to take him down hard. Not a good start. Max had to really fight to get out of the clench of her thighs, grappled with it for a moment before tucking his chin, bucking up and tossing her off of him. They both rolled out of it, getting back to their feet, fists up. She went hard, and even though he landed a punch to her face, he caught one to the stomach, giving her the opportunity to whack him in the face with that damn stub of hers. No muzzle to block it this time.

             They went back and forth like that for some time, mostly blocking blows that would have knocked out lesser fighters, sometimes catching the nasty end of a precise hit. Bruised, bleeding, panting, and occasionally broken, they would limp out of the ring to find a medic, usually leaning on one another for support. Capable bitched and ranted at them for being idiots, taking swings at each other when there were plenty of others standing in line to do it. “You’re more like to kill yourselves in that ring than out on the road, crazy smegs!” She was the only one who knew the extent of the damage they did to each other, and how often. Only sometimes were other people allowed to watch, and that didn’t happen much. Max said that what was theirs stayed between them, and fuck anyone who thought they could be a spectator. But every once in a while when it wasn’t so personal, they brought in some of their fighters to take notes. After nearly an hour, Max had Furiosa pinned and she tapped out. Like hell he was going to be smug about it. Didn’t matter anyway, she gave him a right hook to the face the second he released her. He shut his eyes and inhaled sharply to keep his cool. Fucking _hell_ she pissed him off so much sometimes. In his moment of idleness, she bucked and flipped them, pinning him on his back, thumping his back so hard to the ground that he actually got the wind knocked out of him.

             “I can’t _believe_ you went behind my back like that!” she snarled out. When he didn’t respond, she let out a growl of frustration and threw herself off of him and back onto her feet. Max watched her from his now seated position on the ground, arm flung over a bended knee. She kicked at the ground, shrieking out her rage, and then turned on him, seemingly to strike out again, but stopped short making a tight fist and dropped it. Right about then she realized her nose was bleeding and wiped it away, now refusing to look at him.

“Feel better?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Can we talk about this now?”

She rounded on him, throwing a towel from a nearby rack at his face. Max figured that one of her favorite pastimes was throwing shit at his head. “We _did_ talk, Max!” she hissed. “ _You_ didn’t listen!”

He shrugged, “They were excited.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

 “And I think that’s exactly the point.”

             She growled. “What you think doesn’t matter!” At that he made a face, eyebrow cocked, head tilted, lips in a tight line. It was the “I’m so done with your shit” face which meant she’d crossed a line that he cared about just enough to point it out. Since she was the more loquacious of the two of them, she was more likely to say shit she didn’t mean. Case and point. Biting the inside of her cheek, a little bit of blood dripping from the corner, she put her hand to her hip and waited.

“They wanted to do it themselves.”

“So?”

“They wanted something entertaining.”

“They’re _idiots_.”

“They’ve never gotten to do something completely their own that was their own.” She let out a frustrated growl and plopped down next to him. “It was their idea. It’s all their rules. It’s training.”

“Or another way to get themselves killed.”

“Again, their choice. Nobody’s giving them commands. Telling them to die for some imaginary cause for an imaginary god with an oxygen tank. It’s just…fun.”

She glared at him. “And when they start making a stupid game out of it and start getting people killed for _fun_ , what then Max? What am I supposed to do then?”

              He wiped a hand down his face, wiggling his jaw a little to test how badly it was bruised, then wiping the blood from his own mouth. “You’re not Joe, Furiosa. No one using the drag pits is doing it to die for you. They’re not sacrificing themselves for you. Hell, they’re not even fighting for you anymore. They’re fighting for themselves. For each other. S’not the same.” He let himself lay back on the ground, wincing where he was bruised on his side, and stretched out his legs in front of him. Furiosa sat leaning over her knees, picking at scabs there. When she wouldn’t respond or look at him, he nudged her with his foot. “ _You’re not Joe_.”

            “I know that,” she answered moodily. But she really didn’t. That was something she still struggled with even after all of these years leading these people into a new era. She feared crossing that line, she feared being some kind of overlord, she feared that her leadership would cripple them into indecision and ineptitude. Max thought she was an idiot, but those fears were exactly what made her a good leader. If ever there was a person so in opposition to a dictator, it was Furiosa. Case and point: she was beating the shit out of him personally instead of shooting everyone involved. Since he _had_ undermined her authority, he’d be wearing the consequences of that choice all over his face for a week.

“You definitely don’t,” he argued. “These people, they keep following you because they want to. Not because they don’t know any better. I’m sure if someone better came along, they’d overthrow you in a heartbeat.”

She scowled, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. This _is_ your fault, at any rate.”

“The fuck are you on about?”

“Well, now they’re thinking for themselves. And when people think for themselves, they get ideas. And once they have ideas, they want to make them real.” He pointed sluggishly in her direction. “ _You_ told them they could think for themselves. _You_ showed them how. _You_ taught them to make ideas reality. Ergo, _your_ fault.”

“Horseshit.”

Max shrugged in a languid gesture, accepting that there was a very small possibility that he wasn’t going to be able to get up for a while. Not that Furiosa was doing much better, not like he pulled any punches with her either. This whole situation was tedious. All she had to do was admit he was right and call it a day. It took a few long moments of silence for that to happen.

“Fine. It’s not terrible.” She kicked his leg and he whined a little bit for it. “But the next time you go behind my back, I’m going to permanently mess up your good leg.”

“Understood.”

“Also. Fuck you.”

“Duly noted.”

                It took a minute or two, but eventually they managed to stand and hobble up to Capable’s very capable hands. Furiosa was a little worse for wear, had lost more blood than was probably safe given her history, so Max had her climb up on his back and carried her there. If anyone noticed the oddity of their fearless leader miserably draped over the back of an equally miserable Max, they didn’t say a word. But Capable did. When she saw the state of them, she rolled her eyes and grumbled. The pair stiffly hopped up onto two ends of an empty table and waited for her to come stitch them up, knocking shoulders while Capable groused in the background. She didn’t let them off easily. While she patched up one, she spat abuse at the other.

                “Don’t I have enough to do around here without you two trying to kill each other?” She rubbed a mixture over the swellings and bruises. “Fury, look what you did to his face!” Capable jerked his head around by the chin to show her. “ _That’s_ going to take a month to heal _at least_!” She finished and poked him in his bruised side, coaxing a yelp from him. “And _you_ ,” she said starting work on Furiosa, “haven’t we had enough trouble keeping blood in this one? You trying to finish what Joe started?” The pair of them tried to keep sober expressions plastered on their faces, tried not to laugh at her familiar ranting. It was tough, actually, but she was so much worse when she thought they weren’t taking her seriously.

                A full lecture and a few bandages later, they were sent on their way, leaving a grouchy Capable in their wake. Furiosa figured she’d send little Angharad up to visit her at some point; that would calm her down. As they walked together, Max watched her carefully, attempting to gauge how angry she was. It was a tough call, but probably more wounded pride than real anger. The first time somebody got hurt bad out there, then she would be angry. There was nothing for it but to tread carefully and be more cooperative than necessary.  He’d figure out how to make it up to her. Before they parted ways, Max made sure to pull her to him and kiss her bruised cheek, knowing that anything more would not be appreciated. Still, she rolled her eyes and hissed, “ _Jackass_ ,” before taking the elevator down to the garages. Max chuckled.

                 Later that night, still pissed, Furiosa reassigned herself to an earlier watch so that they weren’t on the same shift. It was for the best; she needed air and he was more than happy to give it to her. So he ate his evening meal with the others, including Fuse and Siphon who were glaring daggers at one another from opposite sides of the fire. Bevita and Romy, two women who’d helped with the drag pit, and a few others talked and ate at their fire as well. Max was very quietly relating to Siphon some of what had gone down with Furiosa, her reactions and the like. Siphon wasn’t optimistic.

“Nah,” Max insisted, “She’ll cool off in a few days.”

“Suppose you know her better than I do,” he gestured to his cheek bone, which was badly bruised and had darkened. “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that, at any rate.”

                “You still might be,” Fuse growled out, sneering at the pair of them. Fuse didn’t like that they’d disobeyed direct orders. It reflected poorly on Furiosa (and more likely himself), that those closest to her didn’t follow orders. But, here was the thing, Max didn’t _take_ orders. Not from Furiosa, not from anyone. Would it have been better if she was on board with this shit? Yes. Did it bother him that she wasn’t? No. But Fuse was a traditionalist at heart, and while Max respected it, it was grating to his nerves. So Max ignored him.

                 “Yeah well,” he pointed to his face, “this was her being nice. I made it out with no broken ribs this time.” They joked a little about all of the times Furiosa had kicked his ass in the ring, especially the one time she kept her prosthetic on. His chest spasmed just from memory. Wasn’t the best of times for their relationship, but he could joke about it with Siphon. They’d formed a tight bond over engines and green things. Siphon was a great planner, a great thinker. He could chart out anything from a finely mapped field to an engine of an imaginary car. Max made those thoughts and plans into solid forms. And now that he wasn’t chasing the Dag around, getting into fights, and generally making Furiosa miserable, he was much easier to get along with. Much to Siphon’s amusement, they were interrupted by some of the younger War Boys sitting nearby, who’d been eager to get the drag pits up and running. Mort, Cargo, Oilpan, and Gore had been Pups when Joe died, with not enough hair among them to cover a single head. They were on their way to earning their place as grown members in the Citadel, but were still trying to prove themselves. Their part in the pits had gone a long way toward that end. Unfortunately, Cargo liked to run his mouth, and was very much entertained by Max’s dealings with their implacable leader. To his mind, Max was something of a god, taking on the woman who’d ripped the face from Immortan Joe.

He laughed at the stories, “It’s like you’re a Furiosa-tamer. Corralling the beast back into her cage.”

                  The people around them dropped into silence. Sweeping his eyes around, Max saw them all avert their gazes, not willing to challenge his place as defender. Bevita was scratching an eyebrow, Siphon became very interested in his food, Romy must have seen some interesting constellation, and Fuse was glaring at Cargo. Every single one of them had fought alongside Furiosa, earned her trust and respect, but there wasn’t a chance in hell they were going to comment on what went on between the two road warriors. The others were more interested in seeing how Max would respond. He’d earned a reputation for having very little tolerance for anyone who spoke against Furiosa, especially when it was suggested that they were anything but equal. Max figured it was an attitude left over from Joe treating women like mindless breeders, and that it could only be corrected in a way they could understand: violence. Letting the silence get under Cargo’s skin, Max took a beat in order to eat a few bites of food, very casually. The young ones seemed confused, looking at one another anxiously, but the more experienced among the group studiously ignored the proceedings. It was best to stay out of Mad Max’s way when he needed to make a point. He cleared his throat, placing his now empty dishes on the ground, “Boy, let me tell you something…”

                  “Max…” Siphon started to protest, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t have to bury another body, but Max held up a hand to quiet him. He took a drink of water from his jug, stood, and lifted up the side of his shirt to reveal the side of his torso that Furiosa had decided wasn’t damaged enough. It was a mottled black and purple, a little bit of green around the edges where Capable’s concoction was starting to work, the points of impact near vital organs darker than the rest of it.

                  “This? This was because I helped _you_ do something you wanted that _she_ didn’t want done. Now what do you think would have happened if I’d done something worse? If I’d threatened the safety of the Citadel? We wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He shoved his shirt back down and settled into his seat with a grimace. “You don’t tame women, _boy_. You ride the back of their rig and pray to whatever god you believe in that they don’t drive you straight into a sandstorm.” He swiped an apple from Siphon’s plate and took bite. “So do yourself a favor, and whenever you’re around your Imperator Furiosa, don’t turn your back. Not even for a moment. Because you’ll never know when she’s decided she wants to flay you out like a pig for the spit.”  He took another bite of his apple, studying the fruit as if it were something captivating. “Isn’t that right, dear?” Max asked casually with a small smirk on his face. Collectively, their gazes snapped over Max’s shoulder where Furiosa loomed with a rifle over her own shoulder. To put it mildly, she looked unimpressed, an eyebrow cocked and hip jutted out in a bored stance. If Cargo’s face got any whiter, he’d look like a War Boy of old, covered in paint. Max snickered quietly. Damn woman could sneak up on a rattle snake on a clear day.

“I’d like to think I’d give the kid a little more warning than that,” she answered blandly, laying her weapon down.

Max snorted. “My jaw begs to differ.” She threw him some pretty hard side eye as she took a seat next to him on the bench.

“Fuse, get your men up there for patrol,” Furiosa snapped. He nodded and sent Romy to get the others. Everyone but Max and Siphon were readying to leave with him. “Oh, and Cargo?”

“Yeah, Boss?” Poor kid looked a little choked up, like he was about to shit himself.

“You can work a double shift tonight. Take Max’s spot,” she informed him sweetly, with a smile stretched across her lips. Only Furiosa could smile at a man she’d just condemned to ten hours of patrolling the walls of a desert city mid-summer. Max was tearing up next to her trying not to laugh at the poor smeg’s face. He looked like someone had just murdered his boyhood puppy.

“Sure thing, Boss,” Cargo managed to choke out before walking away, defeated.

                Siphon didn’t hold back his bark of laughter. “Glory, Furiosa, you do have a way with people.” Furiosa just shrugged and stole Max’s pilfered apple. The two of them had a fondness for fruit since the Dag had gotten her hands on some seeds from a traveler. He let her have a few bites before snatching it back. While they sat, their head cook, Aunty Train, brought out Furiosa’s meal, and Furiosa asked Siphon (and only Siphon) about his plans for these drag pits. She had concerns, wanted rules put in place _and enforced_ for everyone. “Nobody’s taking in weapons, nobody’s dropping grenades, we’re not jumping from car to fucking car.” She had a long list, and Siphon contested some of it. The point of the pits was training, exercises in how to handle certain situations out on the Road. If there wasn’t some amount of risk and threat to life, there would be no point. She contested that the _point_ was to keep the people within their walls _alive_. They got deep into the argument. Max stayed squarely out of it, he’d done his part and fought his battle already, so Siphon was on his own this time. Honestly, he couldn’t argue some of her points, there were many potential negatives, but no one would be able to move forward if Furiosa was constantly worried they were moving back. Siphon tried to drag him into it at one point, asking what he thought about an argument he’d made. Max shrugged. “Sorry, mate, I think nothing.” Siphon tried to dispute, but Max just rolled his eyes and pointed at his face to get him to shut up. Furiosa, black eyed and fat lipped herself, laughed.

                Eventually, Siphon called it a night, reassuring Furiosa that they’d resume their conversation and hash everything out before anyone was allowed in the drag pit. She appreciated the gesture more than she expressed. The understanding was still there. Siphon’s departure left the pair alone at the fire; Max had taken a seat on the ground, his back to the bench and Furiosa slid down to join him. She lightly brushed a thumb across his probably fractured cheekbone.

“Shouldn’t have hit you so hard.”

“Blame the stub. So, really, I blame Joe.”

               She snorted, “Convenient.” He hummed, staring into the fire like it held some answers there. He’d discovered pretty soon after they met that there wasn’t a lot he wouldn’t do for the woman sitting next to him. But he’d be damned if he let her stand in her own way. So what if having a driving course wasn’t essential to their survival? It was a morale thing. Joe’s version of morale had been pouring out a little water and getting the men hyped up to die. There was a new world order, and Furiosa’s opinions weren’t law. She’d set it up that way herself, so this was a good reminder of what that meant. Throughout the day she must have reached that conclusion because sitting next to Max, she had deflated a little. Less agitated, certainly. “Joe controlled _everything_ , didn’t he?” she asked rhetorically, to which he grunted. “The water, the food, what everyone did. I mean, you stepped out of line,” she snapped her fingers, “and just like that everything you knew was gone.” She snapped again. “Home.” Again. “Friends.” Again. “Water.” Again. “Limbs.” She leaned over her knees, resting her face on her closed fists there. “I saw him kick a Pup from the Tower just for talking too much. People are not things.” She said it like she’d been repeating that mantra her whole life. “They’re not disposable.”

“It won’t go that far.”

She turned her head to meet his gaze, “Won’t it?” His mind flashed back to Aunty Entity’s wry grin, her cruelty, the Thunderdome. Who knew how many of her enemies had been executed there under the pretense of entertainment and competition? But the Citadel wasn’t Bartertown. Furiosa was not Entity.

“No,” he whispered. Furiosa heaved a sigh, letting her shoulders fall. She put her head to his shoulder and he pressed a kiss to the top of it.

“You know, 1800 days ago, I would’ve told you to fuck off back to wherever you came from.” Max huffed. “Maybe Cargo’s right, maybe you have _tamed_ me…”

“Ha!” he snorted derisively, “Say that to my rib cage.” She thumped her head on his shoulder. “Speaking of the snot-nosed brat, it seems that my evening has cleared up.” Furiosa hummed and stood up to brush off her pants. Max tilted his head up and squinted at her, “I don’t suppose you have any plans?”

She smirked and held out a hand to help him to his feet, wincing a little in sympathy when he favored his bruised side, “Course I do, Fool.” When they were face to face she raised her eyebrows just so, “You’ve got a lot of apologizing to do.” Max rolled his eyes some, licking his lips to force back a laugh and smirk. His hand wandered down to grab roughly at her waist so he could pull her to him. Then he went in to kiss her, but diverted at the last moment to speak in her ear.

“Whatever you say, _Imperator_.” He pressed a light kiss to the corner of her ear, and sauntered by her, expecting, but not waiting, for her to follow. Furiosa shook out the shiver that had just shot down her spine and grumbled that she hated him before going to catch up.

*

                 It was Max’s turn to be pissed. Of course he was pissed, he had every right to be. But if Furiosa was asked what the fight was about, she couldn’t answer honestly. At all. She’d been looking to pick a fight and he’d been acting cagey for weeks. Hot under the collar to get out of town. Her private garage had transformed into their shared garage, and she’d come in fuming from overseeing repairs to the south wall. It was going terribly; nobody knew what the fuck they were doing, nobody knew who was supposed to be doing what, and the wall kept sinking into the sand. It was hot, she was tired, and whatever stupid thing Max did sent her into a rage. She’d spat out some nasty bile in his direction and he’d done the same. The difference was that he revved up his bike and took off without a backward glance.

                  They’d fought before. He’d left before. He’d left because of a fight before. But this time he stayed gone 45 days. It had been years since he’d been away so long. It had 1345 days since he’d been away for so long. Her bed was empty without him. She hated that Siphon took his place during patrol. She hated that everyone asked where he was; that he’d left projects unfinished. She hated that she was the reason he left, and probably the reason he stayed away. She _hated_ it. Worse still, Furiosa went back and forth between hating him and hating herself, between wanting him to drive back through those gates and wanting to be the one to put a bullet between his eyes. And then there was the worry. The worry that he didn’t have food and water, that he didn’t have enough fuel, that some scavenging smeg cut his throat for his boots, that he’d been captured, that he’d never come back. The not knowing lived under her skin and settled in her chest. It gave her nightmares. Made her sweat. Made her vomit. Capable told her that if she didn’t start eating, she was going to mash it up and stick a tube down her throat. The repairs to the walls halted because no one knew what to do with it.

                   By day 15, Furiosa hadn’t left the garage in almost two days. She ate what she had in stock there, and focused solely on making repairs to her truck. It was the truck they’d fixed up the first night they’d slept together, the one they’d driven out through the Waste with no direction in mind and no plan to come back. She’d taken it on as her personal vehicle. Hell, she even tore up the drag pits in it. But, the morning of the second day came and there was nothing left to do. She’d repaired and polished every damn piece and nook and cranny. It was in perfect working order. The roar of her bloodstream filled her ears, echoes of screams, Angharad going under the wheel, Max’s face after she’d ripped Joe’s from his barely living body. Couldn’t shake any of it. Turning on her heel suddenly, she grabbed the 20 pound sledgehammer from the wall, and taking a few decisive steps, she swung it through the windshield.

                   It took 5 hours to completely destroy the truck. Destruction was so easy, and Max wasn’t the only one who had it in him. She ripped it down to shreds, to bits and pieces. Everything had to be reassembled, most of it had to be replaced. Furiosa stood there in the wake of her destruction, of the mess she’d made, and somehow she felt whole again. Freed from something. This she could fix. She would fix it. Then the midday bell rang, and she went to meet her friends for the first real meal she’d had in days.

                  Day 16 to Day 30 was spent gathering materials. She found replacements for the pieces she’d ruined beyond repair, quick fixes for things she couldn’t immediately replace. She beat out the dents in the paneling, and repainted it. Day 30 to Day 44 was spent entirely on rebuilding. Every Citadel matter was handled from the garage; if she was needed, they knew to find her there. When she wasn’t on patrol, she was in the garage. The cot in there finally got some good mileage. She rebuilt the engine, the carburetor, reconnected valves and spark plugs. She patched the fuel tank and ran the piping. She redid the wiring, connected the gauges, and put in her own kill switches.

                  If the Wives or the Vuvalini were worried, they kept their mouths shut, and went about handling business. They tried not to bother her more than necessary. They only sought her out if it was urgent. Instead they delegated the work out to others. Fuse picked up her slack gladly, just happy to be useful. Siphon was sent to keep her company. He’d originally offered to help rebuild the truck, but she flat out denied him access to it. Instead, he sat there, handing her tools she needed, watching, and sometimes talking. He’d gone to the Wives after three days of silence, insisting that one of them would probably make more headway with her. Toast argued. She told him to keep going, to keep her working, and to not get in her way.

“If Furiosa stops,” Toast said gravely, “then we all stop.” 

                  So he kept going, and gradually it got better. In fact, he started to understand exactly how Furiosa and Max had worked together for so long. For one, they were exactly the same person, just inverted. Furiosa was all outward optimism and hope, and inward cynicism. Max was outward cynicism and destruction, and inward hope. What he believed so strongly in the core of his innermost self, Furiosa wore like a badge. That wasn’t diminished just because Max had taken off, and Siphon found himself brimming with pride and admiration for her. She was sad and low; she missed him. But it hadn’t taken the gleam from her eyes, and every single Citadel matter was handled with the same amount of care and consideration as before. It just happened in her private garage. The difference was that she wasn’t alone now. She didn’t have to make every decision. The women clustered around her and kept her standing, they kept the place running while she regained her footing. Once, a long time ago, she had been the only real support they had. She had been their point of light, their focus, their center. If she held firm, then their circle would too. All too willingly, they held her up. As the truck came to fruition, as it came together into something real and useful, Furiosa was restored. She talked a little more every day. Laughed a little more. Smiled wider. Siphon even got her to talk about Max without spitting bullets. The circle would hold.

                   Day 45 rolled around and the truck was done. Siphon was polishing the headlamps, the garage door up, sun flooding the usually dark space. People had wandered down to see the finished product, bringing their midday meals with them. It had quickly morphed into a social gathering, the little ones running around in and out of the garage, everyone pulling up makeshift seating, and talking over one another. Furiosa was putting some finishing touches on the truck, cosmetic work.

“The Fire and the Fury,” Siphon said as she traced the outlines of the lettering onto the side panels. “It’s got quite a ring to it.”

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “It fits, considering what she’s been through.”

“Max would like it.”

Furiosa rolled her eyes, continuing her work without pause, “Max doesn’t like anything.”  Siphon’s chuckle, however, made her pause. She shot him a hard side eye. “What?”

                   “Nothing!” he insisted. He laughed again at her raised brows. “Okay, it’s just…He likes _you_.” For a moment he thought she muttered _Sometimes_ , but he wasn’t able to dwell on it long. The loud bell rang out, and that meant they had company. Furiosa looked over to see if he was going to go check it out, but he only shrugged, “Fuse’ll take care of it.” She smiled at him and he felt a burst of sympathy for his friend. He saw the way her eyes clouded over every time that damn bell rang out. Just another day, just another stranger.

                     It soon passed out of their thoughts, and they were back to discussing the things that needed to be done in the fields within the next week and how they were going to put together a boiler for the laundry room. Siphon had some ideas, but he wasn’t a fabricator. They talked around what they both thought about that. Capable said that they should try putting together a smaller version of it for the medical ward first to see how that worked out. She was always running out of hot water anyway, so a good boiler would make it easier for her nurses to assist her. If they could replicate it on a larger scale, in theory, it should work. Furiosa thought it was logical enough, but Siphon predicted they would run into several issues along the way. “We’d have to have the exact same parts, to scale. An inch of coil as opposed to what? Ten feet of coil? Where would we even find ten feet of unused coil?”

                      “You could weld it,” came a gruff voice from the other side of the car. A bag dropped to the floor, making the pair stand to see their visitor. Max stood in the garage door opening with his arms crossed, “Gotta,” he turned a finger in a horizontal circle, “melt down enough metal, bang it out.”  Siphon greeted his friend warmly, clasping hands, and told him how glad he was back. Furiosa stayed at a distance near the truck, wiping her hands on a dirty rag. Siphon kept looking back and forth between them, seeing as neither of them was really paying attention to him at all. Their gazes were locked on each other. A few moments of small talk had Siphon feeling superfluous for what needed to happen, but he was the protective sort after all. So, he clapped his hands together loudly.

                    “All _rightie_ ,” he boomed out, and swerved around to address the stragglers hanging around the garage, “C’mon folks, this is a private match and spectators are not welcome.” He swung an arm around in the air, “Let’s wrap it up and move _out_!” He turned to smirk and wink at the pair of them before making a 180 and disappearing around the corner. Furiosa’s gathering followed him, shouting goodbyes and “welcome homes” to Max. Soon they were alone.

“Truck looks good,” he said offhand.

Furiosa scowled, “Give me one good reason not to put a bullet in you.” Max barked out a laugh and dragged a hand across his chin. Obviously, Furiosa was unimpressed. “I’ve got things to do, Fool. State your business or leave.” The smile on his face didn’t leave as he squared up to her, gaze steady.

“Found a guy,” he said evenly, “fixes walls.”

“Walls,” she repeated.

“Walls.”

“You were gone 40 days…”

“45.”

“To find someone to fix our wall?”

He shrugged. “South wall faces Gas Town. Couldn’t ask for their help. Don’t trust Jimbo not to take advantage. Had to go far.”

“How far?”

“Far.”

                  They stared each other down. Like they’d stared each other down when he stole the rig. Like they’d stared each other down when she offered up the kill switch. Like they’d stared each other down when he suggested they turn back toward the Citadel. Like they’d stared each other down the first time he’d left. Like they’d stared each other down a hundred thousand times since then. Between them were a hundred decisions to be made, and only seconds to make them. They could fuck just as easily as they could shoot each other, walk away just as easily as they could come together.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, tossing the rag onto the hood of the truck, now painted a forest green. “ _Okay_.”

“Fury…” he growled out.

                  She waved him off, “Max I can’t keep…I can’t…” He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he closed the distance between them, hands going to the back of her neck, foreheads falling together. Furiosa didn’t even bother fighting it, her hands did the same, and tugged him to her.

“Can’t promise I won’t leave again.” She hummed. “Always gonna come back.” She hummed again.

“Max?” He knocked his head against hers, “Fuck you.”

“Duly noted.”

                    They heard the Dag’s manic giggle from behind them, making them turn to see. The Wives and Valkyrie stood in a line in the doorway of the garage, aggressively bored stances and glaring eyes. Furiosa clapped Max on the shoulder and turned back to the truck. Max squared up to face the firing squad. Furiosa wasn’t the only one who he’d left.

“You staying?” Valkyrie asked.

“For a while.”

“You bring me something?” Toast asked.

“Books.”

                      “You gonna leave again?” Cheedo asked quietly. The others looked a bit sheepish. Except Valkyrie. Valkyrie never looked anything but annoyed. As they’d been talking, Fuse and Siphon rounded the corner, and Siphon leaned against the wall. Fuse, as usual, was glaring. Furiosa honestly did want to say something, to help him out of the sticky little situation he’d put himself in. One word from her and they’d scatter, leaving the two of them alone to repair whatever damage had been done. However, a large part of her knew that Max was now beholden to more than just himself. He’d made that decision on his own, he chose to partake, to engage, to belong. And while Furiosa understood the need to get out, to run, to feel nothing but the heat on your back and the sand soaked wind on your face, _they_ did not. If there was one thing that the people of the Citadel held above all else, it was loyalty. Max broke their trust. Max had to fix it.

                        “I…uh…” she saw his head dip to look at his hands, “I’ll stay until I can’t.” His words were forced and choked. “But I’ll come back.” Little Angharad, who’d been hiding behind her mother’s legs, darted out to him and gripped Max’s thigh like a snake’s vice grip. Her big blue eyes gazed up at him when he put a hand to her soft blonde head. Max’s small smile prompted her to shoot her arms up in a familiar gesture, and with a roll of his eyes, Max heaved the little girl up to rest on his hip. Then her arms shot around his neck and she whispered her pixie-girl tales into his ear. The Dag and Cheedo came up to embrace him and spoke softly to Angharad, smiling in their little circle. Capable and Toast joined them only after a nod from Furiosa. Siphon snuck up behind Angharad to tickle and tease her, making her little body jut out from Max’s easily and without fear of being dropped. Valkyrie just grunted and went back to whatever she’d been doing before. As the little group pulled Max away, asking questions about where he’d been and what he’d seen, he shot a glance over his shoulder to Furiosa. Her eyes blazed like they had on the Fury Road. The blue glimmering in the shade of the garage. It was understood between them; what had been started would finish later. And so he let himself be led off. Fuse remained behind with their leader, watching them go, nose and face pinched like he smelled something unpleasant.

“So he’s back.” Fuse said. “Again.”

“Seems so,” she responded easily, grabbing a rag to clean up her tools.

“Don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to.”

                     “But you do?” he demanded. This was an old argument. For a long time, Furiosa never knew how to explain what went on between her and Mad Max. These things weren’t spoken aloud. Away from his ears, people referred to him as the “Imperator’s man” or “Furiosa’s man.” He’d never said anything about it, so she’d never brought it up. Fuse brought it up constantly. Max was a feral thing, a wild thing, and he’d heard stories from those who knew him as Nux’s Bloodbag. He’d seen what he could do to other men, what he was willing to do to Furiosa, and he didn’t _like_ it. She had heard all of his arguments before, all of his protests, his insisting. This argument was nothing new. In the past, her blunt answer was always _yes_ , and it was just enough to shut her lieutenant up, to get the focus back on the task at hand. She’d never wanted to think about the answer to that question.

“I trust what he’s capable of doing,” she answered slowly and sincerely. “Like he said, he always comes back.”

“And you can live with that? With him bolting whenever he feels like it and not knowing if he’ll ever walk back through the gates?”

“Person can live with a lot of things.”

“My point, Boss, is that you don’t _have_ to.”

                       Furiosa barked out a laugh, she forgot sometimes just how young Fuse was. She forgot that he’d been a child when Joe died. That he hadn’t seen the same horrors, hadn’t lived with the same fears. His transition into the new world they’d created had been a smooth one. Natural. People like her, people like Max, they just didn’t belong among water and green things. All their lives they would long for it, wanting to rest, but they wouldn’t find a resting place until their hearts stopped beating and their eyes closed forever. They built this place for others, not themselves. And Furiosa relished in the idea that they’d created a place where people felt safe enough to have relationships and build lives together. She clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re a good friend, Fuse. Truly good.” She started to leave the garage, go out into the open air, and he followed on her heels.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Furiosa.”

Still walking, she turned back and spread her arms wide, “What was it that Joe always said? Don’t get addicted, you’ll resent its absence.” She picked up her pace, lengthening her strides to get to her next task, and Fuse was struggling to keep up and argue at the same time.

“What kind of stupid…So now you’re an Imperator again? Sounds like a fast way to wear yourself down!” Furiosa was all but running when she started cackling.

                      “Out here, everything hurts. You wanna live? You gotta keep going.” A swollen lightness had overtaken her. Something strong and pure and reassuring. Max could leave again and she didn’t believe it would dim. Old songs from her homeland poured into her consciousness. Songs of praise and thankfulness, songs of joy and love. Little bits of melody and old words rolled on her tongue and stung places in her heart.

*

                       It was sundown before she went looking for Max. It wasn’t uncommon for him to eat alone in some far off corner. And after being swarmed by the Wives and the War Boys who were eager for his approval of their projects, no doubt he’d felt the need to slip away and recharge. She quickly ate her meal and gave some instructions to Fuse before she made her exit, knowing exactly where he’d be.

                     The rainy season had come back. Bouts of precipitation were short and sparse, but it was enough to replenish what the hot sun soaked up. And they’d found bees. _Bees_. Pollinators. The secret ingredient to all life. Inexplicably, the Dag had found them among the flower gardens one morning. Immediately, they’d gone to Toast and Cheedo who knew everything about everything to build them cages. _Hives_ , Furiosa mentally corrected _._ They were called hives. Siphon had drawn up some plans and soon enough, the War Boys had built a dozen of them all around the Citadel. They were full. Brimming. Overflowing. And now they had Beekeepers, people responsible for watching over and taking care of them. What would Joe have to say about _that_? Furiosa wove through the garden paths, letting her hands drift over the greenery, and sauntered up to their hutch. Max was sprawled out, head back and eyes closed.

“What took you so long?” he snarked.

With a roll of her eyes, she eased herself onto the ground, letting her hands prop her up. “Was talking to your Wall builder.” He hummed. “Yep. Said he’d go take a look at first light. Seemed eager to get started.”

Max shrugged his shoulders in a languid rolling move, “Man likes walls.”

“He also mentioned that his wife and children were two days behind you. That he was grateful we could find a place for them here.”

“Man likes his family.”

“Did you _bribe_ the wall guy?”

“I didn’t _threaten_ him, if that’s what you’re asking.” He peeked at her expression through one eye and was met with an arched brow. Max scowled. “Man can’t fix the wall if he’s dead.”

“That’s true…”

“And if he had a good reason for that wall to stay up. Family’s on the inside of it, say. Then he’d fix it better and faster.”

“Ah,” she concluded. “Fuse thinks you brought him back as a peace offering. To get on my good side.” Max grunted. “He also thinks that you dragged him out of Gas Town so that he could sabotage the wall and let raiders in.”

                   “Fuck ‘im,” Max growled out. Despite his cavalier tone, his whole body had tensed up. With a chuckle, Furiosa slung herself astride his hips and legs, hands going to where his shoulder and collarbone met. His gray eyes flashed open, pupils budding wide from contact. She felt him stirring beneath her, his breath getting shallower. As she sat there, he watched her like a starved dog watches the first sign of food. There was a good chance that he’d come back thinking that this part of them was done, and that she’d never seek him out again. Furiosa had certainly thought about it. Because in spite of that glorious rush of light and the bubbling up of Joe’s words at Fuse’s persistent warnings, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. She knew, but she didn’t. And maybe it was better that way.

                     “I reminded him,” she said sweetly, pushing her hips forward just so, she smirked at his half-strangled groan. Always fighting her. “That you could have done much more much sooner than now.” Furiosa rolled her hips again. “When we were weaker.” She clenched her hands into his shoulders for purchase as she moved. “Less organized. Less sure of ourselves.” Max had reached his breaking point, apparently, because he surged up, nearly knocking her from his lap, and claimed her mouth with his. He wasted no time opening her up, pushing his way in, and worked with her to get rid of their clothes. It was an assault on her senses, utterly overwhelming to have him so close, so intensely after so much distance.  Their kiss broke when he flipped her to her back, but they came back together forcefully, messily. He was so intense, so hurried and eager, that she thought he’d take her fast. He was lighting her up, making her body thrum and sing, as he hit every right note and quickly moved along in a dance that was devastating to her nerves. She couldn’t catch up. So when he roughly pulled her leg to the side and lined up to push in, Fuiosa tensed and relaxed, anticipating his onslaught. Max had other plans.

                         His first thrust was brutal and enough to fully seat him in her. She inhaled sharply, loving that line between pain and pleasure, loving that he didn’t think she’d break, loving that he’d found his way here again. She was revving to go, but he didn’t move. “Max?” Without looking at her, he cradled her torso in his arms, pulling her tightly to him, and buried his face in her neck. She felt him inhale, she felt him breathe her in, and then shudder. He still didn’t say anything, just began teasing along her neck with lips, teeth, and his tongue. He bit and licked his way up to her ear. He nuzzled into that corner just below the lobe. He kissed across her face until he found her lips, then he hovered there, and finally met her gaze. Without breaking eye contact, he hitched back his hips and sharply pushed back in, in one fluid stroke. He held for a moment and did it again. And again. And again. There was no teasing, no half strokes, no pushing her beyond. Just sharp and slow. Measured. Together. Each time he pulled out, he dragged his dick along her clit at a delicious angle, making her breath hitch in a grossly high pitched whine. Every time he moved, he forced a sound from her, but he didn’t smile, he didn’t smirk, he just watched her, planting the occasional peck to her lips, and was completely focused on her face. Max was burning her up, marking her insides, stitching his name and his claim along her walls. Ruining her for anyone else. They came at the same time, which was a first. Furiosa’s orgasm was hard won, stretching itself out and blowing up suddenly like a tidal wave that knocked her senseless. She howled. At that moment, Max had pushed himself completely into her, jerking as he reached his own end, just wanting deeper in and in and in. With one last thrust and a groan, he pulled out of her and rolled to his back, panting.

“Fucking glory,” Furiosa said between breaths when she finally thought she could speak again. Max leaned over, covering her again, and kissed her deeply without waiting for her to respond.

“Only,” he said against her lips, “when I’m inside you.”

                   It was possessive. Not proprietary. Fixated and jealous and wanting. There was an edge to his words that wrenched something inside of her, made her want to fight her way out. He’d fight back. It would be a crapshoot as to who would win. No telling. But then she remembered that she wanted to be there, encased in the brace of his arms, pulling him in as he tried to claw his way closer. She welcomed that feral glint in his eyes. So she kissed him hard and bit to draw blood.

                    “Only when I take you in me.” That crazed gleam came back to his eyes and he smashed their lips together. He offered up the now bleeding lip for her to suck in, lick, and tug. The taste of his blood between them. _High Octane. Universal Donor_. That’s what the ink said on his back; she’d spent hours tracing those letters while he slept. She drank down that coppery taste eagerly, taking it into herself like she was dying all over again. Like she was hemorrhaging blood from her body all over again, and Max was her only lifeline. He grinded down against her hip, already hardening. She keened out, wanting him again, but Max gave her his hand instead, twisting his fingers, and using the butt of his palm to give her the pressure she needed, all while kissing and sucking at her pulse point. Furiosa raged against him, her metal hand clasped tight over his wrist. He brought her quietly over the edge again, pecking at her lips as she moved against him, milking every second of it. By then he was fully erect and aching. He moved even slower than before, tired and wanting her to rise up again, meet him in intensity. He teased, he pushed in shallow just to pull out, and when he went in deep he grinded against her and stretched her to her fullest. He rolled and dragged, and egged her on to begging. The moment he felt her desperation, he went full throttle, pounding fast and hard into her, unrelenting. Spent as she was, Furiosa responded and took what she needed, jerking her hips against him for more friction. She came first, dry and aching, and he wasn’t far behind her, growling out his delight.

_She had the sun and the stars wrapped up so tight in her hands that she didn’t even know she was holding up my sky. Her voice flowed like clear water, in waves and trickles, streams and rushing currents, changing so quickly that I capsize in the rapids. But she never noticed how dry my throat became when she was silent. Her laughter slakes my thirst and I am whole again. Her feet were so strong and steady, that she didn’t see how I wound myself around her, offering myself up as a shield for such a raw power. She stood so tall and poised, that she lifted me well above the rest, and so I never told her how fiercely I protected the heart of her roots, the core of herself. Her love and her calm were so strong that they rolled off of her in waves that radiated through the room and touched the souls of anyone she graced with a word or a smile. And when her smile fades, the love is all the stronger, all the brighter. In those moments, I remind her of the force of her love by showing mine._

                        It was something he’d heard from a Wordburger years ago sitting around a fire, something that had clung to the corners of his mind as he went mad. And now they resounded through his brain looking down at Furiosa. It was part of a story about a spirit who loved a mortal woman, but she couldn’t even see him. One night, she is brutally murdered by a scorned lover. Out of grief, the spirit gives his immortality to the dying woman. As he dies and she begins her new life, her anger at her killer and her grief at her dead lover is so strong and palpable that the force of it cracks the earth and swallows the town whole. It is said that she wanders that land in her immortal state, killing anything that grows. He thought it was a stupid story, throwing everything away over a woman. But then…he’d pumped his blood into Furiosa’s veins. He’d ridden out into the Waste, coming back every time to help build her new world. A world that not even she believed she had a part in. Was he so different?

Yes. Because he’d put a bullet in the head of anyone who ever tried to touch her. Or she would, and he’d watch her back. Just like always.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr! bringonthedeluge


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